
ESSAYS v _^aa£Hj 

THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE 
HUMAN MIND; 

AN INQUIRY INTO THE HUMAN MIND ON THE PRINCIPLES 
OF COMMON SENSE; 

AND AN 

ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 

BY 

THOMAS REID, D.D. F.R.S.E. 

PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW. 



A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, 

BY DUGALD STEWART. 

4 

WITH NOTES, SECTIONAL HEADS, AND A SYNOPTICAL TABLE 
OP CONTENTS, 



REV. G. IN\ WRIGHT, M.A. kc. 



LONDON: 
PRINTED FOR THOMAS TEGG, CHEAPSIDE ; 

R. GRIFFIN AND CO., GLASGOW; T. MESSURIER, DUBLIN; 
J. AND S. A. TEGG, SYDNEY AND HOBART TOWN. 

MDCCCXLIII. 






f 



A? 






^0 



J? 



\b EDITOR'S PREFACE 



Greater typographical accuracy is not the only advantage to 
which this edition of the author's works is entitled; it possesses 
the still further recommendation of being the only complete and 
perfect collection of his writings yet published. In the first 
volume are included, " An Account of Dr. Reid's Life and 
Writings," from the classic pen of Dugald Stewart; "Essays 
on the Active Powers of the Human Mind ;" " An Inquiry into 
the Human Mind, on the Principles of Common Sense ;" and 
" An Essay on Quantity :" the last has hitherto only appeared in 
the " Philosophical Transactions." The second volume contains 
the author's prceclarum opus, " Essays on the Intellectual Powers 
of Man," together with his " View " or " Analysis of Aristotle's 
Logic," first published in the works of Lord Karnes, and subse- 
quently in a separate volume. 

In the preparation of these Essays for the press and the pub- 
lic, one uniform method has been observed. Where it had not 
been previously done by the author, the chapters are divided, 
with scrupulous attention to each pause, or interruption in the 
chain of reasoning, into sections ; and to every section, whether 
original or newly separated, headings are prefixed. These 
headings present a condensed view of the contents, argument, 
or arguments, in each section ; and, as far as it could be done, 
they are so linked together in meaning as to afford a tolerably 
full, correct, and continuous synopsis of the author's theory. 
In these introductions, perhaps, consist the chief merit which this 



EDITOR S PREFACE. 



edition can claim. To facilitate, however, the interpretation of 
abstruse passages, brackets are employed, italic letters frequently 
used, and forcible examples marked by indices ; besides which 
those arguments that support any theory or fact, and which are 
scattered over many pages or chapters, or even Essays, are 
indicated and connected by the numerals of some one particular 
fount ; and attention called to this connexion by notes, sometimes 
containing a complete recapitulation. 

In those parts of the author's writings that are of a mixed 
character — moral and metaphysical — numerous quotations from 
the works of ancient philosophers occur in the original lan- 
guages. All such extracts have been translated, not literally, 
but appropriately ; and given, not in substitution, but in addi- 
tion to the originals. 

Hitherto the philosophical labours of this able and excellent 
man, the bold assailant of Locke, lay, like the Sibyl's leaves, 
where the winds had carried them. Henceforth, it is hoped, 
their connexion, an end so valuable in such serious investiga- 
tions, will be unequivocally perceived; and some of the difficul- 
ties that have obstructed the study of pneumatology thereby 
alleviated, if not entirely removed. 



G. N. W. 



Coed Celyn, Llanrwst, Denbighshire. 
1843. 



SYNOPTICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS, 



ESSAYS ON THE ACTIVE POWERS OF THE MIND. 



Life of Dr. Reid 



Introduction 



Page 
1 



77 



ESSAY I. v 



OF ACTIVE POWER IN GENERAL. 

CHAPTER I. v 

OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER 79 V 

Sec. 1. An explanation of the mean- 
ing of " active power" ne- 
cessary . . . ib. 

2. The Aristotelian definition 

of motion . . . ib. 

3. Of our conception of active 

power . . .80 

4. Power not an object of con- 

sciousness . . . ib. 

But a relative conception . 81 

6. There are some things of 

which we can have both a 
direct and a relative con- 
ception . . .82 

7. Our conception of power is 

relative to its exertions or 
effects . . .83 

8. Our idea of power . . ib. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE SAME SUBJECT . . 85 . 

Sec. 1. Distinction of "action and 
passion " coeval with the 
origin of languages . ib. 

2. Objection . . . ib. 

6. Active verbs appear plainly 
to have been first contrived 
to express action . .88 

CHAPTER III. 
of mr. locke's account of our 
idea of power . .91 

2. Objections to Mr. Locke's 
origin of our idea of power ib. 



CHAPTER IV. 
of mr. hume's opinion of the 

idea of power . . 93 

Sec. 1. Induction, by which Mr. ■ 
Hume attempts to explain 
the origin of our simple 
ideas, imperfect . . ib. 

4. Of the two principles which 
Hume opposes to Locke . 96 

CHAPTER V. 

WHETHER BEINGS THAT HAVE NO 
WILL NOR. UNDERSTANDING 
MAY HAVE ACTIVE POWER? . 97 

Sec. 1. The question perplexed by 
the ambiguity of certain 
terms . . . ib. 

4. Volition necessary to the 

operation of power . 99 

6. Our conception of active 
power relative . .101 

CHAPTER VI. 

OF THE EFFICIENT CAUSES OF THE 

PHENOMENA OF NATURE .103 

Sec. 1. Of powers ascribed to matter ib. 
CHAPTER VII. 

OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. 107 

Sec. 1. Power an attribute of ac- 
countable beings . . ib, 
8. Human power entirely de- 
pendent upon God and the 
laws of nature . .113 



ESSAY II. V 

OF THE WILL. 

CHAPTER I. 

OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING THE 



114 



VI 



SYNOPTICAL TABLE 



Page 
Sec. 1. Volition and will different . 114 

2. The term will, how used . ib. 

3. Its definition . .115 
5. Of command, will, and de- 
sire . . .117 

CHAPTER II. 

OF THE INFLUENCE OF INCITE- 
MENTS AND MOTIVES UPON THE 
WILL . . . .119 

Sec. 1 . Instinct . . . ib. 

2. Judgment not necessary to 

instinct . . . ib. 

3. The exercise of judgment 

distinct from the impulse 

of appetite. . .121 

4. Taste and judgment differ . 122 

5. Of passion and reason . ib. 

CHAPTER III. 

OF OPERATIONS OF MIND WHICH 

MAY BE CALLED VOLUNTARY . 126 

Sec. 1. Of attention, deliberation, 

and resolution . . ib. 

2. Of genius . . .127 

3. Deliberation . .129 

6. Resolution . . .131 

7. The virtue and affection of 

benevolence different . 132 

CHAPTER IV. 

COROLLARIES . . . 135 

Sec. 1. Of transient and momentary 

acts of the will . . ib. 



ESSAY III. 

OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 
PART I. 

OF THE MECHANICAL PRINCIPLES OF 
ACTION. 

CHAPTER I. 

OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION IN 

GENERAL . . .138 

Sec. 1. Actions of men classified . ib. 

2. Knowledge of the principles 

of action important . ib. 

3. Difficulties attending an in- 

vestigation of the principles 

of human actions . .139 

4. Third cause of the difficulty 

of tracing the principles of 
action in man . . 140 

CHAPTER II. 

OF INSTINCT . . .142 

Sec. 1. Of instinct in man . ib. 



Page 
Sec. 2. Of instinct in inferior ani- 
mals . . .143 
3. Some human instincts tran- 
sitory, others permanent . 145 

6. Fourth case in which in- 

stinct, probably, is requisite 147 

7. Judgment and belief influ- 

enced, to a certain extent, 

by instinct. . .148 

CHAPTER III. 

OF HABIT .... 151 

Sec. 1. Vulgar definition of habit . ib. 
2. The art of speaking, the 
strongest illustration of the 
force of habit . . 1 52 



PART II. 
OF ANIMAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 

CHAPTER I. 

OF APPETITES . . .154 

Sec. 1. Definition of animal princi- 
ples of action . . ib. 
5. The principle of activity 
belongs to every period of 
• life . . .157 
7. The government of appe- 
tites gives a superiority to 
man over brute animals . 159 

CHAPTER II. 

OF DESIRES. . . .160 

Sec. 1. Distinction between appe- 
tites and desires twofold . ib. 
2. Of esteem and contempt . ib. 

5. Such natural desires not sel- 

fish principles . .162 

6. Our desires auxiliary to the 

maintenance of morals . ib. 
9. Of acquired desires . 165 

CHAPTER III. 

OF BENEVOLENT AFFECTION IN GE- 
NERAL . . .166 

Sec. 2. Objects of our desires and 

our affections different . 167 

CHAPTER IV. 

OF THE PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT 

AFFECTIONS . . .171 

Sec. 1. Of natural affection. . ib. 

2. Duration of parental affec- 

tion limited in inferior ani- 
mals ; not so in the human 
species . . .172 

3. Parental affection the effect 

of our natural constitution. 173 

4. Further uses of parental 

affection . . . ib. 



OF CONTENTS. 



Y1L 



Page 
Sec. 11. Necessity for submitting 
public spirit to the control 
of reason and virtue, evi- 
dent . . .179 

CHAPTER V. 

OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION . 182 

Sec. 1. Of emulation and resent- 
ment . . . ib. 

4. Effects of emulation in 

brute-animals . .185 

5. Definition of resentment . ib. 
7. Children and rude nations 

generally ascribe life and 
intelligence to inanimate 
things . . .188 

9. Agreements and disagree- 
ments between deliberate 
and mere animal resent- 
ment . . .189 

CHAPTER VI. 

OF PASSION . . . .190 

Sec. 1. Passion, Disposition, Opin- 
ion . . . ib. 
2. Definition of passion . 191 

5. Hume's paradoxes generally 

reducible to abuses of words 193 

6. Common division of the 

passions . . . ib. 

7. Influence of passion . 194 

CHAPTER VIE 

OF DISPOSITION . . .198 

Sec..3. The excellent consequences 

of good humour . .199 

5. Elation, magnanimity, a 

sense of honour and pride 200 

6. Depression, humility, mean- 
ness . . . ib. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

OF OPINION 



. 202 



Sec. 1. Influence of opinion upon 

our animal principles . ib. 

4. Analogy between the disci- 

pline of body and mind . 203 

5. Man actuated, by no sense 

of duty, considered . 204 



PART III. 

OF THE RATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF 
ACTION. 

CHAPTER I. 

THERE ARE RATIONAL PRINCIPLES 

OF ACTION IN MAN . . 206 

Sec. 2. Hume's error as to one of 

the chief offices of reason . 207 



CHAPTER II. 

Page 
OF REGARD TO OUR GOOD ON THE 

WHOLE . . . 208 

Sec. 1. Chief spring of our early 

actions . . ib. 

2. The conception of what is 
good or ill for us upon the 
whole, the offspring of 
reason . . . 209 

4. Office of practical reason .211 

CHAPTER III. 

THE TENDENCY OF THIS PRINCIPLE 213 

Sec. 1. Question of the ancient mo- 
ralists, " What is the great- 
est good ?" . . ib. 

2. Fallacy of the Epicurean 

doctrine . . . ib. 

3. Doctrine of the Stoics not 

original . . .214 

4. Recapitulation of what has 

been advanced relative to 
the rational principles of 
action . . . 216 

CHAPTER IV. 

DEFECTS OF THIS PRINCIPLE .217 

Sec. 1. The rational principle of 
action not the only regu- 
lator of human conduct . ib. 

CHAPTER V. 

OF THE NOTION OF DUTY, RECTI- 
TUDE, MORAL OBLIGATION . 221 

Sec. 1. A sense of interest, or a 
sense of duty, or both, ne- 
cessary to the social state . ib. 

2. Of a sense of duty only . ib. 

3. The notion of this principle 

invariable, its extent not so 223 

4. Reality of moral distinc- 

tions . . . ib. 

6. Moral obligation a relation 225 

CHAPTER VI. 

OF THE SENSE OF DUTY . .227 

Sec. 1. The moral sense, — the moral 

faculty, — conscience . ib. 

2. This analogy excusable . ib. 

3. Further shown . . 228 

5. Universality of first princi- 

ples . . . 230 

6. The first principles of morals 

are the immediate dictates 

of the moral faculty . 230 

7. Recapitulation . .231 

CHAPTER VII. 

OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DIS- 



APPROBATION . 



. 231 



VI 11 



SYNOPTICAL TABLE 



Page 
Sec. 1. Of affections and feelings 
included in our moral judg- 
ments . . .231 
3. Moral disapprobation' . 233 

6. Social ties auxiliary to vir- 

tue, unfavourable to vice . 235 

7. Consequences of remorse . ib. 

8. Operations of the faculty 

called moral sense . . 236 

CHAPTER VIII. 

OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CON- 
SCIENCE . . .237 

Sec. 1. Our judgment of moral con- 
duct advances from infancy 
by insensible degrees . ib. 
3. Scepticism twofold . . 238 

8. The intention or end of our 

active powers obvious . 241 

9. Office of conscience . 242 
10. Stoical perfection ideal . 243 
12. Extravagance of Mysticism ib. 



v ESSAY IV, 

ON THE LIBERTY OF MORAL 
AGENTS. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE NOTIONS OF MORAL LIBERTY 

AND NECESSITY STATED . 246 

Sec. 1. Moral liberty . . ib. 

2. The voluntary actions of 
brutes, determined by the 
present predominant pas- 
sion . . . 247 

7. Three additional meanings 

of the word liberty . 249 

CHAPTER II. 

OF THE WORDS CAUSE AND EFFECT, 

ACTION, AND ACTIVE POWER . 251 

Sec. 1. The use of ambiguous terms 
has impeded our reason- 
ings about moral liberty . ib. 
2. Active power . . 252 

5. Recapitulation . . 254 

CHAPTER III. 

CAUSES OF THE AMBIGUITY OF 

THOSE WORDS . . . 255 

Sec. 1. Premature conclusion as to 

objects indued with motion ib. 

6. A chief cause of the imper- 

fection of language . 257 

8. Absurd theories of philoso- 

phers to explain causation 259 

9. Not mischievous . . ib. 



Page 
Sec. 10. Proof of a Deity on these 
principles presents no diffi- 
culty . . . 260 

CHAPTER IV. 

OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES . 261 

Sec. 6. Motives of the same kind 

may be compared . .264 

8. Animal test of the strength 

of motives . . . 265 

9. Rational motives defined . 266 
10. Rational test of the strength 

of motives . . . ib. 

14. The supposition of necessity 
precludes rewards and pun- 
ishments — liberty gives 
efficacy to both . . 268 

CHAPTER V. 

LIBERTY CONSISTENT WITH GO- 
VERNMENT . . .269 

Sec. 1. Mechanical and moral go- 
vernment . . . ib. 
7. The moral government of 
God consistent with liberty 273 

CHAPTER VI. 

FIRST ARGUMENT . . .275 

Sec. 3. The belief of acting freely 
is coeval with our reason, 
universal, and necessary . 278 
5. Exceptions . . . 279 

CHAPTER VII. 

SECOND ARGUMENT . .282 

Sec. 1. Certain first principles uni- 
versally conceded . . ib. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

THIRD ARGUMENT . . . 2S6 

Sec. 2. Argument from analogy . 286 

3. Its application . .287 

4. Objection and answer . ib. 

CHAPTER IX. 

OF ARGUMENTS FOR NECESSITY . 289 

Sec. 1. Three classes of arguments 

against human liberty . ib. 

2. Boast of Leibnitz . . ib. 

3. Identity of indiscernibles . 290 

4. Leibnitz' proof of the truth 

of his principle only a pe- 
titio principii . . ib. 

5. Three meanings of the prin- 

ciple of " a sufficient reason" 
applied to the determina- 
tions of the will . .291 

6. The principle further ex- 

amined . . . ib. 



Or CONTENTS. 



Sec. 9. Four consequences of this 

definition of a cause . 294 

CHAPTER X. 

THE SAME SUBJECT . .297 

Sec. 2. Third class of arguments 

against human liberty . 298 

CHAPTER XI. 

OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL . 303 

Sec. 2. Scientia media . . ib. 

3. Prescience of the Deity in- 
disputable. . . 304 



ESSAY V. 

OF MORALS. 

CHAPTER I. 

OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MO- 
RALS . . . .312 

Sec. 1. First principles . . ib. 

4. Another class of axioms in 

morals . . .317 

5. Conclusion . .319 

CHAPTER II. 

OF SYSTEMS OF MORALS . .319 

Sec. 1. Instruction in morals ne- 
cessary . . . ib 
3. Necessity of instruction in 
morals shown from the evi- 
dence of history . .321 

6. Morals have been method- 

ized in different ways . 322 

CHAPTER III. 

OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURIS- 
PRUDENCE . . . 323 
Sec, 1." Jurisprudence and morals 

closely related . . ib. 

5. True origin of systems of 
natural jurisprudence . 326 

CHAPTER IV. 

WHETHER AN ACTION DESERVING 
MORAL APPROBATION, MUST BE 
DONE "WITH THE BELIEF OF 
ITS BEING MORALLY GOOD . 329 

Sec. 9. Conscience, or moral sense 337 



CHAPTER V. 

Page 
WHETHER JUSTICE BE A NATURAL 

OR AN ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE . 338 

Sec. 1. Hume consistent as a writer 

on morals . . . ib. 

3. Hume agrees with the Epi- 

cureans in one respect . 339 

4. Disagrees in another . 340 

5. Effect of this doctrine . ib. 

6. Natural and artificial vir- 

tues . . . ib. 

8. Esteem . . .341 

9. The merit of justice, accord- 

ing to Hume . . 342 

17. Six branches of justice . 349 
20. Mr. Hobbes' system . 350 

26. This argument would prove 
all social virtues to be arti- 
ficial, as well as justice . 357 

28. Obvious defect in Mr. 

Hume's reasoning as to the 
standard of justice gene- 
rally . . . 358 

29. Standard of justice among 

the ancients . . 359 

CHAPTER VI. 

OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION 

OF A CONTRACT . .361 

Sec. 1. Promise and contract differ- 
ent . . . ib. 
2. Definition of a contract . 362 
5. Contracts and promises have 
a foundation in nature . 367 

7. Natural tendency of Mr. 

Hume's principles . 370 

8. Mr. Hume's practice proba- 

bly contradicted his princi- 
ples . . .371 
10. Origin of the contradictions 

in Mr. Hume's arguments 374 

CHAPTER VII. 

THAT MORAL APPROBATION IM- 
PLIES A REAL JUDG3IENT . 376 

Sec. 4. Of feeling and judgment . 377 
8. Improper use of words has 
impeded the study of moral 
philosophy . . 384 

10. Impiety of the assertion, that 
moral judgment is merely 
a feeling . ; . 392 



SYNOPTICAL TABLE 



AN INQUIRY INTO THE HUMAN MIND ON THE 
PRINCIPLES OF COMMON SENSE. 



Page 
DEDICATION TO LORD DESKFOORD 395 



CHAPTER I. 

INTRODUCTION . . .399 

Sec. 1. The importance of the sub- 
ject, and the means of pro- 
secuting it . . ib. 

2. The impediments to our 

knowledge of the mind . 400 

3. The present state of this 

part of philosophy. Of 
Des Cartes, Malebranche, 
and Locke . . 403 

4. Apology for these philoso- 

phers . . . 405 

5. Of Bishop Berkeley ; the 

" Treatise of Human Na- 
ture ;" and of scepticism . 406 

6. Of the " Treatise of Human 

Nature" . . . 408 

7. The system of all these au- 

thors is the same, and leads 

to scepticism . . 409 

8. We ought not to despair of 

abetter . . . 410 



CHAPTER II. 



OF SMELLING 



411 



Sec 1. The order of proceeding. 
Of the medium and organ 
of smell . . . ib. 

2. The sensation considered 

abstractly . . .412 

3. Sensation and its remem- 

brance natural principles 

of belief . . .413 

4. Judgment and belief in some 

cases precede simple appre- 
hension . . .415 

5. Two theories of the nature 

of belief refuted. Conclu- 
sions from what hath been 
said . . . 415 

6. Apologyfor metaphysical ab- 

surdities. Sensation with- 
out a sentient, a conse- 
quence of the theory of 
ideas. Consequences of 
this strange opinion . 418 

7. The conception and belief 

of a sentient being or mind, 
is suggested by our consti- 



Page 
tution. The notion of re- 
lations not always got by 
comparing the related ideas 422 

8. There is a quality or virtue 

in bodies, which we call 
their smell. How this is 
connected in the imagina- 
tion with the sensation . 424 

9. That there is a principle in 

human nature, from which 
the notion of this, as well 
as all other natural virtues 
or causes, is derived . 425 

0. Whether in sensations the 
mind is active or passive . 428 



CHAPTER III. 

OF TASTING 

CHAPTER IV. 



. 430 



433 



OF HEARING 

Sec. 1. Variety of sounds. Their 
place and distance learned 
by custom, without reason- 
ing . . . ib. 
2. Of natural language . 434 

CHAPTER V. 
OF TOUCH .... 437 
Sec. 1. Of heat and cold . . ib. 

2. Of hardness and softness . 438 

3. Of natural signs . . 441 

4. Of hardness, and other pri- 

mary qualities . . 444 

5. The distinction betwixt pri- 

mary and secondary quali- 
ties hath had several revo- 
lutions . . . ib. 

6. Of extension . . 445 

7. Of extension . .447 

8. Of the existence of a mate- 

rial world . . .449 

9. Of the systems of philoso- 

phers concerning the senses 454 

CHAPTER VI. 

OF SEEING .... 457 

Sec. 1. The excellence and dignity 

of this faculty . . ib. 

2. Sight discovers almost no- 
thing which the blind may 
not comprehend. The rea- 
son of this . • 459 



OF CONTENTS. 



Page 

Sec. 3. Of the visible appearances 

of objects . . .462 

4. That colour is a quality of 

bodies, not a sensation of 
the mind . 

5. First inference from the pre 

ceding 

6. Second. — That none of our 

sensations are resemblances 
of any of the qualities of 
bodies 

7. Of visible figure and exten- 

sion 

8. Some queries concerning vi- 

sible figure answered 

9. Of the geometry ofvisibles 

10. Of the parallel motion of the 

eyes . . . 

11. Of our seeing objects erect 

by inverted images 

12. The same subject continued 497 

13. Of seeing objects single with 

two eyes . . . 509 

14. Of the laws of vision in 

brute animals . .514 

1 5. The phenomena of squinting 

considered hypothetically 516 



465 



. 467 



470 

474 

477 
482 

490 

492 



Page 
Sec. 16. Facts relating to squinting 524 

17. Of the effect of custom in 

seeing objects single . 526 

18. Of Dr. Porterfield's account 

of single and double vision 532 

19. Of Dr. Briggs's theory, and 

Sir Isaac Newton's conjec- 
ture on this subject . 534 

20. Of perception in general . 542 

21. Of the process of nature in 

perception . .548 

22. Of the signs by which we 

learn to perceive distance 
from the eye . . 552 

23. Of the signs used in these 

acquired perceptions . 561 

24. Of the analogy between per- 

ception and the credit we 
give to human testimony 563 



CHAPTER VII. 

CONCLUSION . . .575 

Sec. 1. Containing reflections upon 
the opinions of philoso- 
phers on this subject . 575 



AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 





Page 




Sec. 1 . What quantity is 


. 591 


Sec 


2. Of proper and 


improper 




quantity . 


. 592 




3. Corollary 1 


. 594 




4. Corollary 2 


. ib. 




5. Corollary 3 


. 595 





Page 

6. Of the Newtonian measure 

of force . . .596 

7. Of the Leibnitzian measure 

of force . . .597 

8. Reflections on this contro- 

versy . . .598 




(C PROPER- 



ACCOUNT 



THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

OF 

THOMAS REID, D.D. 



SECTION L 



PROM DR. REID'S BIRTH TILL THE DATE OF HIS LATEST PUBLICATION, 

The life of which I am now to present to the Royal Society 
a short account, although it fixes an era in the history of modern 
philosophy, was uncommonly barren of those incidents which 
furnish materials for biography ; strenuously devoted to truth, 
to virtue, and to the best interests of mankind ; but spent in the 
obscurity of a learned retirement, remote from the pursuits of 
ambition, and with little solicitude about literary fame. After 
the agitation, however, of the political convulsions which Europe 
has witnessed for a course of years, the simple record of such a 
life may derive an interest even from its uniformity ; and when 
contrasted with the events of the passing scene, may lead the 
thoughts to some views of human nature, on which it is not 
ungrateful to repose. 

Thomas Reid, D.D., late Professor of Moral Philosophy in 
the University of Glasgow, was born on the 26th of April, 1710, 
at Strachan in Kincardineshire, a country parish situated about 
twenty miles from Aberdeen, on the north side of the Grampian 
Mountains. 

His father, the Reverend Lewis Reid, was minister of this 
parish for fifty years. He was a clergyman, according to his 
son's account of him, respected by all who knew him, for his 



g ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

piety, prudence, and benevolence ; inheriting from his ancestors 
(most of whom, from the time of the Protestant establishment, 
had been ministers of the Church of Scotland) that purity and 
simplicity of manners which became his station ; and a love of 
letters, which, without attracting the notice of the world, amused 
his leisure, and dignified his retirement. 

For some generations before his time, a propensity to litera- 
ture, and to the learned professions, — a propensity which, when 
it has once become characteristical of a race, is peculiarly apt to 
be propagated by the influence of early associations and habits, — 
may be traced in several individuals among his kindred. One of 
his ancestors, James Reid, was the first minister of Banchory- 
Ternan after the Reformation ; and transmitted to four sons a 
predilection for those studious habits which formed his own hap- 
piness. He was himself a younger son of Mr. Reid of Pitfoddels, 
a gentleman of a very ancient and respectable family in the 
county of Aberdeen. 

James Reid was succeeded as minister of Banchory by his son 
Robert. Another son, Thomas, rose to considerable distinction 
both as a philosopher and a poet ; and seems to have wanted 
neither ability nor inclination to turn his attainments to the best 
advantage. After travelling over Europe, and maintaining, as 
was the custom of his age, public disputations in several univer- 
sities, he collected into a volume the theses and dissertations 
which had been the subjects of his literary contests ; and also 
published some Latin poems, which may be found in the collec- 
tion entitled " Deliciae Poetarum Scotorum." On his return to 
his native country, he fixed his residence in London, wheie he 
was appointed secretary in the Greek and Latin tongues to King 
James the First of England, and lived in habits of intimacy with 
some of the most distinguished characters of that period. — Little 
more, I believe, is known of Thomas Reid's history, excepting 
that he bequeathed to the Marischal College of Aberdeen a curi- 
ous collection of books and manuscripts, with a fund for establish- 
ing a salary to a librarian. 

Alexander Reid, the third son, was physician to King Charles 
the First, and published several books on surgery and medicine. 
The fortune he acquired in the course of his practice was con- 
siderable, and enabled him (beside many legacies to his relations 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 3 

and friends) to leave various lasting and honourable memorials, 
both of his benevolence, and of his attachment to letters. 

A fourth son, whose name was Adam, translated into English, 
" Buchanan's History of Scotland." Of this translation, which 
was never published, there is a manuscript copy in the possession 
of the University of Glasgow. 

A grandson of Robert, the eldest of these sons, was the third 
minister of Banchory after the Reformation, and was great-grand- 
father of Thomas Reid, the subject of this memoir.* 

* In the account given in the text, of Dr. Reid's ancestors, I have followed 
scrupulously the information contained in his own memorandums. I have 
some suspicion, however, that he has committed a mistake with respect to the 
name of the translator of Buchanan's History ; which would appear, from the 
MS. in Glasgow College, to have been — not Adam, but John. At the same 
time, as this last statement rests on an authority altogether unknown, (being 
written in a hand different from the rest of the MS.,) there is a possibility that 
Dr. Reid's account may be correct; and therefore I have thought it advisable, 
in a matter of so very trifling consequence, to adhere to it in preference to the 
other. 

The following particulars, with respect to Thomas Reid may, perhaps, be 
acceptable to some of my readers. They are copied from Dempster, a con- 
temporary writer ; whose details concerning his countrymen, it must, however, 
be confessed, are not always to be implicitly relied on. 

" Thomas Reidus Aberdonensis, pueritias meae et infantilis otii sub Thoma 
Cargillo collega, Lovanii literas in schola Lipsii serio didicit, quas magno 
nomine in Germania docuit, carus Principibus. Londini diu in comitatu 
humanissimi ac clarissimi viri Fulconis Grevilli, Regii Consiliarii Interioris et 
Anglise Proqusestoris, egit : turn ad amicitiam Regis, eodem Fulcone deducente, 
evectus, inter Palatinos admissus, a literis Latinis Regi fuit. Scripsit multa, 
ut est magna indole et varia erudition e," &c. — " Ex aula se, nemine conscio, 
nuper proripuit, dum illi omnia festinati honoris augmenta singuli ominaren- 
tur, nee quid deinde egerit aut quo locorum se contulerit quisquam indicare 
potuit. Multi suspicabantur, taedio aulas affectum, monasticae quieti seipsum 
tradidisse, sub annum 1618. Rumor postea fuit in aulam rediisse, et meritissi- 
mis honoribus redditum, sed nunquam id consequetur quod virtus promeretur." 
— Hist. Ecclesiastica Gentis Scotorum, lib. xvi. p. 576. 

What was the judgment of Thomas Reid's own times with respect to his 
genius, and what their hopes of his posthumous fame, may be collected from 
an elegy on his death by his learned countryman Robert Aytoun. Already, 
before the lapse of two hundred years, some apology, alas ! may be thought 
necessary for an attempt to rescue his name from total oblivion. 

Aytoun's elegy on Reid is referred to in terms very flattering both to its 
author and to its subject, by the editor of the Collection, entitled, " Poetarum 
Scotorum Musae Sacrae." " In obitum Thomas Rheidi epicedium extat elegan- 

B2 



ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 



The particulars hitherto mentioned, are stated on the authority 
of some short memorandums written by Dr. Reid a few weeks 
before his death. In consequence of a suggestion of his friend 
Dr. Gregory, he had resolved to amuse himself with collecting 
such facts as his papers or memory could supply, with respect to 
his life, and the progress of his studies ; but, unfortunately, 
before he had fairly entered on the subject, his design was inter- 
rupted by his last illness. If he had lived to complete it, I might 
have entertained hopes of presenting to the public some details 
with respect to the history of his opinions and speculations on 
those important subjects to which he dedicated his talents ; — the 
most interesting of all articles in the biography of a philosopher, 
and of which, it is to be lamented, that so few authentic records 
are to be found in the annals of letters. All the information, 
however, which I have derived from these notes, is exhausted in 
the foregoing pages ; and I must content myself, in the continua- 
tion of my narrative, with those indirect aids which tradition, and 
the recollection of a few old acquaintances, afford ; added to what 
I myself have learned from Dr. Reid's conversation, or collected 
from a careful perusal of his writings. 

His mother, Margaret Gregory, was a daughter of David 
Gregory, Esq., of Kinnairdie, in Banffshire ; elder brother of 
James Gregory, the inventor of the reflecting telescope, and the 
antagonist of Huyghens. She was one of twenty -nine children ; 
the most remarkable of whom was David Gregory, Savilian Pro- 
fessor of Astronomy at Oxford, and an intimate friend of Sir 
Isaac Newton. Two of her younger brothers were at the same 
time professors of mathematics ; the one at St. Andrew's, the 

tissimum Roberti Aytoni, viri Uteris ac dignitate clarissimi, in Deliciis Poeta- 
rum Scotorum, ubi et ipsius quoque poemata, paucula quidem ilia, sed venusta, 
sed elegantia, comparent." 

The only works of Alexander Reid of which I have heard, are " Chirurgical 
Lectures on Tumors and Ulcers," London, 1635 ; and a " Treatise of the first 
part of Chirurgerie," London, 1638. He appears to have been the physician 
and friend of the celebrated mathematician Thomas Harriott, of whose interest- 
ing history so little was known, till the recent discovery of his manuscripts, by 
Mr. Zach, of Saxe-Gotha. 

A remarkable instance of the careless or capricious orthography formerly so 
common in writing proper names, occurs in the different individuals to whom 
this note refers. Sometimes the family name is written — Reid ; on other oc- 
casions, Riede, Read, Rhead or Rhaid. 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. £ 

other at Edinburgh ; and were the first persons who taught the 
Newtonian philosophy in our northern universities. The heredi- 
tary worth and genius which have so long distinguished, and 
which still distinguish, the descendants of this memorable family, 
are well known to all who have turned their attention to Scottish 
biography ; but it is not known so generally, that through the 
female line, the same characteristical endowments have been 
conspicuous in various instances ; and that to the other monu- 
ments which illustrate the race of the Gregories, is to be added 
the Philosophy of Reid. 

With respect to the earlier part of Dr. Reid's life, all that I 
have been able to learn amounts to this, that after two years 
spent at the parish school of Kincardine, he was sent to Aber- 
deen, where he had the advantage of prosecuting his classical 
studies under an able and diligent teacher ; that, about the age 
of twelve or thirteen, he was entered as a student in Marischal 
College ; and that his master in philosophy, for three years, was 
Dr. George Turnbull, who afterwards attracted some degree of 
notice as an author ; particularly by a book entitled " Principles 
of Moral Philosophy," and by a voluminous treatise (long ago 
forgotten) on Ancient Painting.* The sessions of the College 
w r ere, at that time, very short, and the education (according to 
Dr. Reid's own account) slight and superficial. 

It does not appear from the information which I have received, 
that he gave any early indications of future eminence. His 
industry, however, and modesty, were conspicuous from his 
childhood; and it was foretold of him, by the parish school- 

* Dr. Turnbull's work on Moral Philosophy was published at London in 
1 740. As I have only turned over a few pages, I cannot say any thing with 
respect to its merits. The mottos on the title-page are curious, when considered 
in connexion with those inquiries which his pupil afterwards prosecuted with so 
much success ; and may, perhaps, without his perceiving it, have had some 
effect in suggesting to him that plan of philosophizing which he so systemati- 
cally and so happily pursued. 

" If Natural Philosophy, in all its parts, by pursuing this method, shall at 
length be perfected, the bounds of Moral Philosophy will also be enlarged." — 
Newton's Optics. 

" Account for moral, as for natural things." — Pope. 

For the opinion of a very competent judge with respect to the Treatise on 
Ancient Painting, vide Hogarth's print, entitled, " Beer -lane." 



5 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

master who initiated him in the first principles of learning, 
" That he would turn out to be a man of good and well "wearing 
parts ;" a prediction which touched, not unhappily, on that capa- 
city of " patient thought" which so peculiarly characterised his 
philosophical genius. 

His residence at the university was prolonged beyond the 
usual term, in consequence of his appointment to the office of 
librarian, which had been endowed by one of his ancestors about 
a century before. The situation was acceptable to him, as it 
afforded an opportunity of indulging his passion for study, and 
united the charms of a learned society, with the quiet of an 
academical retreat. 

During this period, he formed an intimacy with John Stewart, 
afterwards Professor of Mathematics in Marischal College, and 
author of a commentary on Newton's " Quadrature of Curves." 
His predilection for mathematical pursuits was confirmed and 
strengthened by this connexion. I have often heard him mention 
it with much pleasure, while he recollected the ardour with 
which they both prosecuted these fascinating studies, and the 
lights which they imparted mutually to each other, in their first 
perusal of the " Principia," at a time when a knowledge of the 
Newtonian discoveries was only to be acquired in the writings of 
their illustrious author. 

In 1736, Dr. Reid resigned his office of librarian, and accom- 
panied Mr. Stewart on an excursion to England. They visited, 
together, London, Oxford, and Cambridge, and were introduced 
to the acquaintance of many persons of the first literary emi- 
nence. His relation to Dr. David Gregory procured him a ready 
access to Martin Folkes, whose house concentrated the most 
interesting objects which the metropolis had to offer to his curio- 
sity. At Cambridge he saw Dr. Bentley, who delighted him 
with his learning, and amused him with his vanity; and enjoyed 
repeatedly the conversation of the blind mathematician, Saun- 
derson ; a phenomenon in the history of the human mind, to 
which he has referred more than once, in his philosophical specu- 
lations. 

With the learned and amiable man who was his companion in 
this journey, he maintained an uninterrupted friendship till 1766, 
when Mr. Stewart died of a malignant fever. His death was 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 



accompanied with circumstances deeply afflicting to Dr. Reid's 
sensibility ; the same disorder proving fatal to his wife and daugh- 
ter, both of whom were buried with him in one grave. 

In 1737, Dr. Reid was presented, by the King's College of 
Aberdeen, to the living of New-Machar in the same county ; but 
the circumstances in which he entered on his preferment were far 
from auspicious. The intemperate zeal of one of his predeces- 
sors, and an aversion to the law of patronage, had so inflamed 
the minds of his parishioners against him, that, in the first dis- 
charge of his clerical functions, he had not only to encounter the 
most violent opposition, but was exposed to personal danger. His 
unwearied attention, however, to the duties of his office ; the 
mildness and forbearance of his temper, and the active spirit of 
his humanity, soon overcame all these prejudices ; and, not many 
years afterwards, when he was called to a different situation, the 
same persons who had suffered themselves to be so far misled as 
to take a share in the outrages against him, followed him, on his 
departure, with their blessings and tears. 

Dr. Reid's popularity at New-Machar (as I am informed by 
the respectable clergyman* who now holds that living) increased 
greatly after his marriage, in 1740, with Elizabeth, daughter of 
his uncle, Dr. George Reid, physician in London. The accom- 
modating manners of this excellent .woman, and her good offices 
among the sick and necessitous, are still remembered with grati- 
tude ; and so endeared the family to the neighbourhood, that its 
removal was regarded as a general misfortune. The simple and 
affecting language in which some old men expressed themselves 
on this subject, in conversing with the present minister, deserves 
to be recorded. " We fought against Dr. Reid when he came, 
and would have fought for him when he went away." 

In some notes relative to the earlier part of his history, which 
have been kindly communicated to me by the Reverend Mr. 
Davidson, minister of Rayne, it is mentioned as a proof of his 
uncommon modesty and diffidence, that long after he became 
minister of New-Machar, he was accustomed, from a distrust in 
his own powers, to preach the sermons of Dr. Tillotson and of 
Dr. Evans. I have heard also, through other channels, that he 
had neglected the practice of composition to a more than ordinary 

* The Reverend William Stronach. 



3 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

degree, in the earlier part of his studies. The fact is curious, 
when contrasted with that ease, perspicuity, and purity of style, 
which he afterwards attained. From some information, however, 
which has been lately transmitted to me by one of his nearest 
relations, I have reason to believe, that the number of original 
discourses which he wrote, while a country clergyman, was not 
inconsiderable. 

The satisfaction of his own mind was probably, at this period, 
a more powerful incentive to his philosophical researches, than 
the hope of being able to instruct the world as an author. But, 
whatever his views were, one thing is certain, that during his 
residence at New-Machar, the greater part of his time was spent 
in the most intense study ; more particularly in a careful examina- 
tion of the laws of external perception, and of the other prin- 
ples which form the groundwork of human knowledge. His 
chief relaxations were gardening and botany, to both of which 
pursuits he retained his attachment even in old age. 

A paper which he published in the Philosophical Transactions 
of the Royal Society of London, for the year 1748, affords some 
light with respect to the progress of his speculations about this 
period. It is entitled, " An Essay on Quantity, occasioned by 
reading a Treatise, in which Simple and Compound Ratios are 
applied to Virtue and Merit ;" and shows plainly, by its contents, 
that, although he had not yet entirely relinquished the favourite 
researches of his youth, he was beginning to direct his thoughts 
to other objects. 

The treatise alluded to in the title of this paper, was manifestly 
the "Inquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue," 
by Dr. Hutcheson of Glasgow. According to this very ingenious 
writer, the moment of public good produced by an individual, 
depending partly on his benevolence, and partly on his ability, 
the relation between these different moral ideas may be expressed 
in the technical form of algebraists, by saying, that the first is in 
the compound proportion of the two others. Hence, Dr. Hutche- 
son infers, that " the benevolence of an agent (which in this 
system is synonymous with his moral merit) is proportional to a 
fraction, having the moment of good for the numerator, and the 
ability of the agent for the denominator." Various other exam- 
ples of a similar nature occur in the same work ; and are stated 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. Q 

with a gravity not altogether worthy of the author. It is pro- 
bable, that they were intended merely as illustrations of his 
general reasonings, not as media of investigation for the discovery 
of new conclusions ; but they appeared to Dr. Reid to be an 
innovation which it was of importance to resist, on account of 
the tendency it might have (by confounding the evidence of dif- 
ferent branches of science) to retard the progress of knowledge. 
The very high reputation which Dr. Hutcheson then possessed 
in the universities of Scotland, added to the recent attempts of 
Pitcairn and Cheyne to apply mathematical reasoning to medi- 
cine, would bestow, it is likely, an interest on Dr. Reid's Essay 
at the time of its publication, which it can scarcely be expected 
to possess at present. Many of the observations, however, which 
it contains, are acute and original; and all of them are expressed 
with that clearness and precision, so conspicuous in his subse- 
quent compositions. The circumstance which renders a subject 
susceptible of mathematical consideration, is accurately stated ; 
and the proper province of that science defined in such a manner, 
as sufficiently to expose the absurdity of those abuses of its 
technical phraseology which were at that time prevalent. From 
some passages in it, there is, I think, ground for concluding, that 
the author's reading had not been very extensive previous to 
this period. The enumeration, in particular, which he has given 
of the different kinds of proper quantity, affords a proof, that he 
was not acquainted with the refined yet sound disquisitions con- 
cerning the nature of number and of proportion, which had 
appeared almost a century before, in the " Mathematical Lec- 
tures" of Dr. Barrow ; nor with the remarks on the same subject 
introduced by Dr. Clarke in one of his controversial letters 
addressed to Leibnitz. 

In the same paper, Dr. Reid takes occasion to offer some re- 
flections on the dispute between the Newtonians and Leibnitzians 
concerning the measure of forces. The fundamental idea on 
which these reflections proceed, is just and important ; and it 
leads to the correction of an error, committed very generally by 
the partizans of both opinions ; that, of mistaking a question 
concerning the comparative advantages of two definitions, for a 
difference of statement with respect to a physical fact. It must, 
I think, be acknowledged, at the same time, that the whole merits 



1Q ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

of the controversy are not here exhausted ; and that the honour 
of placing this very subtle and abstruse question in a point of 
view calculated to reconcile completely the contending parties, 
was reserved for M. D'Alembert. To have fallen short of the 
success which attended the inquiries of that eminent man, on a 
subject so congenial to his favourite habits of study, will not 
reflect any discredit on the powers of Dr. Reid's mind, in the 
judgment of those who are at all acquainted with the history of 
this celebrated discussion. 

In 1752, the professors of King's College elected Dr. Reid 
Professor of Philosophy, in testimony of the high opinion they 
had formed of his learning and abilities. Of the particular plan 
which he followed in his academical lectures, while he held this 
office, I have not been able to obtain any satisfactory account ; 
but the department of science which was assigned to him by the 
general system of education in that university, was abundantly 
extensive ; comprehending mathematics and physics, as well as 
logic and ethics. A similar system was pursued formerly in the 
other universities of Scotland ; the same professor then conduct- 
ing his pupils through all those branches of knowledge which 
are now appropriated to different teachers. And where he hap- 
pened fortunately to possess those various accomplishments 
which distinguished Dr. Reid in so remarkable a degree, it can- 
not be doubted that the unity and comprehensiveness of method, 
of which such academical courses admitted, must necessarily 
have possessed important advantages over that more minute sub- 
division of literary labour which has since been introduced. 
But as public establishments ought to adapt themselves to what 
is ordinary, rather than to what is possible, it is not surprising, 
that experience should have gradually suggested an arrangement 
more suitable to the narrow limits which commonly circumscribe 
human genius. 

Soon after Dr. Reid's removal to Aberdeen, he projected (in 
conjunction with his friend Dr. John Gregory) a literary society, 
which subsisted for many years, and which seems to have had 
the happiest effects in awakening and directing that spirit of 
philosophical research, which has since reflected so much lustre 
on the north of Scotland. The meetings of this society were 
held weekly ; and afforded the members (beside the advantages 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. J J 

to be derived from a mutual communication of their sentiments 
on the common objects of their pursuit) an opportunity of sub- 
jecting their intended publications to the test of friendly criticism. 
The number of valuable works which issued nearly about the 
same time, from individuals connected with this institution, 
more particularly the writings of Reid, Gregory, Campbell, 
Beattie, and Gerard, furnish the best panegyric on the en- 
lightened views of those under whose direction it was originally 
formed. 

Among these works, the most original and profound was, un- 
questionably, the " Inquiry into the Human Mind," published 
by Dr. Reid in 1764. The plan appears to have been conceived, 
and the subject deeply meditated, by the author long before ; 
but it is doubtful whether his modesty would have ever per- 
mitted him to present to the world the fruits of his solitary 
studies, without the encouragement which he received from the 
general acquiescence of his associates, in the most important 
conclusions to which he had been led. 

From a passage in the dedication, it would seem that the 
speculations which terminated in these conclusions had com- 
menced as early as the year 1739 ; at which period the publica- 
tion of Mr. Hume's " Treatise of Human Nature" induced him, 
for the first time, as he himself informs us, " to call in question 
the principles commonly received with regard to the human 
understanding." In his " Essays on the Intellectual Powers," 
he acknowledges, that, in his youth he had, without examination, 
admitted the established opinions on which Mr. Hume's system 
of scepticism was raised ; and that it was the consequences which 
these opinions seemed to involve, which roused his suspicions 
concerning their truth. " If I may presume," says he, " to 
speak my own sentiments, I once believed the doctrine of ideas 
so firmly, as to embrace the whole of Berkeley's system along 
with it ; till finding other consequences to follow from it, which 
gave me more uneasiness than the want of a material world, it 
came into my mind more than forty years ago, to put the ques- 
tion, What evidence have I for this doctrine, that all the objects 
of my knowledge are ideas in my own mind ? From that time 
to the present, I have been candidly and impartially, as I think, 



12 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

seeking for the evidence of this principle ; but can find none, 
excepting the authority of philosophers." 

In following the train of Dr. Reid's researches, this last 
extract merits attention, as it contains an explicit avowal, on his 
own part, that, at one period of his life, he had been led, by 
Berkeley's reasonings, to abandon the belief of the existence of 
matter. The avowal does honour to his candour, and the fact 
reflects no discredit on his sagacity. The truth is, that this 
article of the Berkleian system, however contrary to the conclu- 
sions of a sounder philosophy, was the error of no common mind. 
Considered in contrast with that theory of materialism which 
the excellent author was anxious to supplant, it possessed im- 
portant advantages, not only in its tendency, but in its scientific 
consistency ; and it afforded a pi oof, wherever it met with a 
favourable reception, of an understanding superior to those 
casual associations, which, in the apprehensions of most men, 
blend indissolubly the phenomena of thought with the objects 
of external perception. It is recorded as a saying of M. Turgot, 
(whose philosophical opinions in some important points ap- 
proached very nearly to those of Dr. Reid,*) that " he who had 
never doubted of the existence of matter, might be assured he 
had no turn for metaphysical disquisitions." 

As the refutation of Mr. Hume's sceptical theory was the 
great and professed object of Dr. Reid's " Inquiry," he was 
anxious, before taking the field as a controversial writer, to 
guard against the danger of misapprehending or misrepresenting 
the meaning of his adversary, by submitting his reasonings to 
Mr. Hume's private examination. With this view, he availed 
himself of the good offices of Dr. Blair, with whom both he and 
Mr. Hume had long lived in habits of friendship. The com- 
munications which he at first transmitted, consisted only of 
detached parts of the work ; and appear evidently, from a cor- 
respondence which I have perused, to have conveyed a very 
imperfect idea of his general system. In one of Mr. Hume's 
letters to Dr. Blair, he betrays some want of his usual good 
humour, in looking forward to his new antagonist. " I wish," 
says he, " that the parsons would confine themselves to their old 

* See, in particular, the article "Existence," in the Encyclopedie, 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. ] o 

occupation of worrying one another, and leave philosophers to 
argue with temper, moderation, and good manners." After Mr. 
Hume, however, had read the manuscript, he addressed himself 
directly to the author, in terms so candid and liberal, that it 
would be unjust to his memory to withhold from the public so 
pleasing a memorial of his character. 

" By Dr. Blair's means, I have been favoured with the perusal 
of your performance, which I have read with great pleasure and 
attention. It is certainly very rare, that a piece so deeply 
philosophical is wrote with so much spirit, and affords so much 
entertainment to the reader ; though I must still regret the 
disadvantages under which I read it, as I never had the whole 
performance at once before me, and could not be able fully to 
compare one part with another. To this reason, chiefly, I 
ascribe some obscurities, which, in spite of your short analysis 
or abstract, still seem to hang over your system. For I must 
do you the justice to own, that when I enter into your ideas, 
no man appears to express himself with greater perspicuity than 
you do; a talent which, above all others, is requisite in that 
species of literature which you have cultivated. There are some 
objections which I would willingly propose to the chapter, ' Of 
Sight,' did I not suspect that they proceed from my not suffi- 
ciently understanding it ; and I am the more confirmed in this 
suspicion, as Dr. Blair tells me, that the former objections I 
made had been derived chiefly from that cause. I shall there- 
fore forbear till the whole can be before me, and shall not at 
present propose any farther difficulties to your reasonings. I 
shall only say, that if you have been able to clear up these 
abstruse and important subjects, instead of being mortified, I 
shall be so vain as to pretend to a share of the praise ; and shall 
think, that my errors, by having at least some coherence, had led 
you to make a more strict review of my principles, which were 
the common ones, and to perceive their futility. 

" As I was desirous to be of some use to you, I kept a watch- 
ful eye all along over your style; but it is really so correct, 
and so good English, that I found not any thing worth the 
remarking. There is only one passage in this chapter, where 
you make use of the phrase hinder to do, instead of hinder from 
doing, which is the English one ; but I could not find the pas- 



14 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

sage when I sought for it. You may judge how unexception- 
able the whole appeared to me, when I could remark so small a 
blemish. I beg my compliments to my friendly adversaries, Dr. 
Campbell and Dr. Gerard ; and also to Dr. Gregory, whom I 
suspect to be of the same disposition, though he has not openly 
declared himself such." — 

Of the particular doctrines contained in Dr. Reid's " Inquiry," 
I do not think it necessary here to attempt any abstract ; nor 
indeed do his speculations (conducted as they were in strict 
conformity to the rules of inductive philosophizing) afford a 
subject for the same species of rapid outline, which is so useful 
in facilitating the study of a merely hypothetical theory. Their 
great object was to record and to classify the phenomena which 
the operations of the human mind present to those who reflect 
carefully on the subjects of their consciousness ; and of such a 
history, it is manifest, that no abridgment could be offered with 
advantage. Some reflections on the peculiar plan adopted by 
the author, and on the general scope of his researches in this 
department of science, will afterwards find a more convenient 
place, when T shall have finished my account of his subsequent 
publications. 

The idea of prosecuting the study of the human mind, on a 
plan analogous to that which had been so successively adopted 
in physics by the followers of Lord Bacon, if not first con- 
ceived by Dr. Reid, was at least first carried successfully into 
execution in his writings. An attempt had long before been 
announced by Mr. Hume, in the title-page of his " Treatise of 
Human Nature," to introduce the experimental method of rea- 
soning into moral subjects ; and some admirable remarks are made 
in the introduction to that work, on the errors into which his 
predecessors had been betrayed by the spirit of hypothesis ; and 
yet it is now very generally admitted, that the whole of his own 
system rests on a principle for which there is no evidence but 
the authority of philosophers ; and it is certain, that in no part 
of it has he aimed to investigate by a systematical analysis, those 
general principles of our constitution which can alone afford a 
synthetical explanation of its complicated phenomena. 

I have often been disposed to think, that Mr. Hume's inatten- 
tion to those rules of philosophizing which it was his professed, 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. J 5 

intention to exemplify, was owing in part to some indistinctness 
in his notions concerning their import. It does not appear, 
that, in the earlier part of his studies, he had paid much atten- 
tion to the models of investigation exhibited in the writings of 
Newton and of his successors ; and that he was by no means 
aware of the extraordinary merits of Bacon as a philosopher, 
nor of the influence which his writings have had on the subse- 
quent progress of physical discovery, is demonstrated by the 
cold and qualified encomium which is bestowed on his genius, 
in one of the most elaborate passages of the " History of 
England." 

In these respects, Dr. Reid possessed important advantages ; 
familiarized from his early years to those experimental inquiries 
which, in the course of the two last centuries, have exalted 
natural philosophy to the dignity of a science ; and determined 
strongly, by the peculiar bent of his genius, to connect every 
step in the progress of discovery with the history of the human 
mind. The influence of the general views opened in the " No- 
vum Organon," may be traced in almost every page of his 
writings ; and indeed, the circumstance by which these are so 
strongly and characteristically distinguished, is, that they exhibit 
the first systematical attempt to exemplify, in the study of human 
nature, the same plan of investigation which conducted Newton 
to the properties of light, and to the law of gravitation. It is 
from a steady adherence to this plan, and not from the supe- 
riority of his inventive powers, that he claims to himself any 
merit as a philosopher ; and he seems even willing (with a 
modesty approaching to a fault) to abandon the praise of what is 
commonly called genius, to the authors of the systems which he 
was anxious to refute. " It is genius," he observes in one pas- 
sage, " and not the want of it, that adulterates philosophy, and 
fills it with error and false theory. A creative imagination 
disdains the mean offices of digging for a foundation, of remov- 
ing rubbish, and carrying materials: leaving these servile em- 
ployments to the drudges of science, it plans a design, and raises 
a fabric. Invention supplies materials where they are wanting, 
and fancy adds colouring and every befitting ornament. The 
work pleases the eye, and wants nothing but solidity and a good 
foundation. It seems even to vie with the works of nature, till 



IQ ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

some succeeding architect blows it into ruins, and builds as 
goodly a fabric of his own in its place." 

" Success in an inquiry of this kind," he observes farther, 
" it is not in human power to command ; but perhaps it is pos- 
sible, by caution and humility, to avoid error and delusion. The 
labyrinth may be too intricate, and the thread too fine, to be 
traced through all its windings ; but, if we stop where we can 
trace it no farther, and secure the ground we have gained, there 
is no harm done ; a quicker eye may in time trace it farther." 

The unassuming language with which Dr. Reid endeavours 
to remove the prejudices naturally excited by a new attempt to 
philosophize on so unpromising, and hitherto so ungrateful a 
subject, recalls to our recollection those passages in which Lord 
Bacon — filled as his own imagination was with the future gran- 
deur of the fabric founded by his hand — bespeaks the indulgence 
of his readers, for an enterprise apparently so hopeless and pre- 
sumptuous. The apology he offers for himself, when compared 
with the height to which the structure of physical knowledge has 
since attained, may perhaps have some effect in attracting a more 
general attention to pursuits still more immediately interesting 
to mankind ; and, at any rate, it forms the best comment on the 
prophetic suggestions in which Dr. Reid occasionally indulges 
himself concerning the future progress of moral speculation. 

" Si homines per tanta amiorum spatia viam verarn inveniendi 
et colendi scientias tenuissent, nee tamen ulterius progredi potu- 
issent, audax procul dubio et temeraria foret opinio, posse rem 
in ulterius provehi. Quod si in via ipsa erratum sit, atque homi- 
num opera in iis consumpta in quibus minime oportebat, sequitur 
ex eo, non in rebus ipsis difficultatem oriri, quae potestatis nos- 
tras non sunt ; sed in intellectu humano, ej usque usu et applica- 
tione, quae res remedium et medicinam suscipit." * . . . " De 
nobis ipsis silemus : de re autem quae agitur, petimus ; ut homi- 
nes earn non opinionem, sed opus esse cogitent ; ac pro certo 
habeant, non sectae nos alicujus, aut placiti, sed utilitatis et 
amplitudinis humanae fundamenta moliri. Praeterea, ut bene 
sperent ; neque Instaurationem nostram ut quiddam infinitum et 
ultra mortale fingant, et animo concipiant ; quum revera sit 
infiniti erroris finis et terminus legitimus."f 

* Nov. Org. 94. f Instaur. Mag. — Praefat. 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. \f 

The impression produced on the minds of speculative men by 
the publication of Dr. Reid's " Inquiry," was fully as great as 
could be expected from the nature of his undertaking. It was 
a work neither addressed to the multitude, nor level to their 
comprehension ; and the freedom with which it canvassed opin- 
ions sanctioned by the highest authorities, was ill calculated to 
conciliate the favour of the learned. A few, however, habituated, 
like the author, to the analytical researches of the Newtonian 
school, soon perceived the extent of his views, and recognised in 
his pages the genuine spirit and language of inductive investiga- 
tion. Among the members of this university, Mr. Ferguson was 
the first to applaud Dr. Reid's success ; warmly recommending 
to his pupils a steady prosecution of the same plan, as the only 
effectual method of ascertaining the general principles of the 
human frame ; and illustrating happily, by his own profound and 
eloquent disquisitions, the application of such studies, to the 
conduct of the understanding, and to the great concerns of life. 
I recollect, too, when I attended (about the year 1771) the lec- 
'• tures of the late Mr. Russell, to have heard high encomiums on\ 
the philosophy of Reid, in the course of those comprehensive 
discussions concerning the objects and the rules of experimental 
science, with which he so agreeably diversified the particular 
doctrines of physics. Nor must I omit this opportunity of pay- 
ing a tribute to the memory of my old friend, Mr. Stevenson, 
then professor of logic, whose candid mind, at the age of 
seventy, gave a welcome reception to a system subversive of the 
theories which he had taught for forty years ; and whose zeal for 
the advancement of knowledge prompted him, when his career 
was ahnost finished, to undertake the laborious task of new- 
modelhng that useful compilation of elementary instruction, to 
which a singular diffidence of his own powers limited his literary 
exertions. 

It is with no common feelings of respect and of gratitude, 
that I now recall the names of those to whom I owe my first 
attachment to these studies, and the happiness of a liberal 
occupation superior to the more aspiring aims of a servile 
ambition. 

From the University of Glasgow, Dr. Reid's " Inquiry " re- 
ceived a still more substantial testimony of approbation ; the 

c 



IS ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

author having been invited, in 1763, by that learned body, to 
the professorship of moral philosophy, then vacant by the resig- 
nation of Mr. Smith. The preferment was in many respects 
advantageous ; affording an income considerably greater than he 
enjoyed at Aberdeen ; and enabling him to concentrate to his 
favourite objects that attention which had been hitherto dis- 
tracted by the miscellaneous nature of his academical engage- 
ments. It was not, however, without reluctance, that he con- 
sented to tear himself from a spot where he had so long been 
fastening his roots ; and, much as he loved the society in which 
he passed the remainder of his days, I am doubtful if, in his 
mind, it compensated the sacrifice of earlier habits and con- 
nexions. 

Abstracting from the charm of local attachment, the Univer- 
sity of Glasgow, at the time when Dr. Reid was adopted as one 
of its members, presented strong attractions to reconcile him to 
his change of situation. Robert Simson, the great restorer of 
ancient geometry, was still alive ; and, although far advanced in 
years, preserved unimpaired his ardour in study, his relish for 
social relaxation, and his amusing singularities of humour. Dr. 
Moor combined with a gaiety and a levity foreign to this climate, 
the profound attainments of a scholar and of a mathematician. 
In Dr. Black, to whose fortunate genius a new world of science 
had just opened, Reid acknowledged an instructor and a guide ; 
and met a simplicity of manners congenial to his own. The 
Wilsons (both father and son) were formed to attach his heart by 
the similarity of their scientific pursuits, and an entire sympathy 
with his views and sentiments. Nor was he less delighted with 
the good-humoured opposition which his opinions never failed to 
encounter in the acuteness of Millar, — then in the vigour of 
youthful genius, and warm from the lessons of a different school. 
Dr. Leechman, the friend and biographer of Hutcheson, was the 
official head of the college ; and added the weight of a venerable 
name to the reputation of a community, which he had once 
adorned in a more active station.* 

• James Moor, LL.D., author of a very ingenious fragment on Greek gram- 
mar, and of other philological essays. He was also distinguished by a pro- 
found acquaintance with ancient geometry. Dr. Simson, an excellent judge of 
his merits both in literature and science, has somewhere honoured him with 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. ] 9 

Animated by the zeal of such, associates, and by the busy 
scenes which his new residence presented in every department of 
useful industry, Dr. Reid entered on his functions at Glasgow, 
with an ardour not common at the period of life which he had 
now attained. His researches concerning the human mind, and 
the principles of morals, which had occupied but an inconsider- 
able space in the wide circle of science, allotted to him by his 
former office, were extended and methodized in a course, which 
employed five hours every week, during six months of the year : 
the example of his illustrious predecessor, and the prevailing 
topics of conversation around him, occasionally turned his thoughts 
to commercial politics, and produced some ingenious essays on 
different questions connected with trade, which were communi- 
cated to a private society of his academical friends : his early 
passion for the mathematical sciences was revived by the conver- 
sation of Simson, Moor, and the Wilsons ; and, at the age of 
fifty -five, he attended the lectures of Black, with a juvenile 
curiosity and enthusiasm. 

As the substance of Dr. Reid's lectures at Glasgow (at least of 
that part of them which was most important and original) has 
been since given to the public in a more improved form, it is 
unnecessary for me to enlarge on the plan which he followed in 
the discharge of his official duties. I shall therefore only observe, 
that beside his " Speculations on the Intellectual and Active 
Powers of Man," and a " System of Practical Ethics," his course 
comprehended some general views with respect to natural juris- 
prudence, and the fundamental principles of politics. A few 
lectures on rhetoric, which were read, at a separate hour, to a 
more advanced class of students, formed a voluntary addition to 
the appropriate functions of his office, to which, it is probable, 
he was prompted, rather by a wish to supply what was then a 
deficiency in the established course of education, than by any 
predilection for a branch of study so foreign to his ordinary 
pursuits. 

the following encomium : " Turn in Mathesi, turn in Grsecis Uteris multum 
et feliciter versatus." 

Alexander Wilson, M. D., and Patrick Wilson, Esq. ; well known over 
Europe by their " Observations on the Solar Spots j" and many other valuable 
memoirs. 

c2 



20 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

The merits of Dr. Reid, as a public teacher, were derived 
chiefly from that rich fund of original and instructive philosophy 
which is to be found in his writings ; and from his unwearied 
assiduity in inculcating principles which he conceived to be of 
essential importance to human happiness. In his elocution and 
mode of instruction, there was nothing peculiarly attractive. He 
seldom, if ever, indulged himself in the warmth of extempore 
discourse ; nor was his manner of reading calculated to increase 
the effect of what he had committed to writing. Such, however, 
was the simplicity and perspicuity of his style ; such the gravity 
and authority of his character ; and such the general interest of 
his young hearers in the doctrines which he taught, that by the 
numerous audiences to which his instructions were addressed, he 
was heard uniformly with the most silent and respectful atten- 
tion. On this subject, I speak from personal knowledge ; having 
had the good fortune, during a considerable part of the winter 
of 1772, to be one of his pupils. 

It does not appear to me, from what I am now able to recol- 
lect of the order which he observed in treating the different parts 
of his subject, that he had laid much stress on systematical 
arrangement. It is probable, that he availed himself of whatever 
materials his private inquiries afforded, for his academical com- 
positions ; without aiming at the merit of combining- them into 
a whole, by a comprehensive and regular design ; — an under- 
taking, to which, if I am not mistaken, the established forms of 
his university, consecrated by long custom, would have presented 
some obstacles. One thing is certain, that neither he nor his 
immediate predecessor ever published any general prospectus of 
their respective plans ; nor any heads or outlines to assist their 
students in tracing the trains of thought which suggested their 
various transitions. 

The interest, however, excited by such details as these, even 
if it were in my power to render them more full and satisfactory, 
must necessarily be temporary and local ; and I therefore hasten 
to observations of a more general nature, on the distinguishing 
characteristics of Dr. Reid's philosophical genius, and on the 
spirit and scope of those researches which he has bequeathed to 
posterity, concerning the phenomena and laws of the human 
mind. In mentioning his first performance on this subject,' I 



OF THOMAS RE1P, D.D. Q\ 

have already anticipated a few remarks which are equally appli- 
cable to his subsequent publications ; but the hints then sug- 
gested were too slight, to place in so strong a light as I could 
wish, the peculiarities of that mode of investigation, which it was 
the great object of his writings to recommend and to exemplify. 
His own anxiety, to neglect nothing that might contribute to its 
farther illustration, induced him, while his health and faculties 
were yet entire, to withdraw from his public labours ; and to 
devote himself, with an undivided attention, to a task of more 
extensive and permanent utility. It was in the year 1781, that 
he carried this design into execution, at a period of life (for he 
was then upwards of seventy) when the infirmities of age might 
be supposed to account sufficiently for his retreat ; but when, in 
fact, neither the vigour of his mind nor of his body seemed to 
have suffered any injury from time. The works which he pub- 
lished not many years afterwards, afford a sufficient proof of the 
assiduity with which he had availed himself of his literary leisure ; 
his "Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man" appearing in 
1785; and those on the " Active Powers" in 1788. 

As these two performances are, both of them, parts of one 
great work, to which his " Inquiry into the Human Mind" may 
be regarded as the introduction, I have reserved for this place 
whatever critical reflections I have to offer on his merits as an 
author; conceiving that they would be more likely to produce 
their intended effect, when presented at once in a connected 
form, than if interspersed, according to a chronological order, 
with the details of a biographical narrative. 



SECTION II. 

OBSERVATIONS ON THE SPIRIT AND SCOPE OF DR. REID'S PHILOSOPHY. 

I have already observed, that the distinguishing feature of 
Dr. Reid's philosophy, is the systematical steadiness, with which 
he has adhered in his inquiries, to that plan of investigation 
which is delineated in the " Novum Organon," and which has 
been so happily exemplified in physics by Sir Isaac Newton and 
his followers. To recommend this plan as the only effectual 
method of enlarging our knowledge of nature, was the favourite 



22 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

aim of all his studies, and a topic on which he thought he could 
not enlarge too much, in conversing or corresponding with his 
younger friends. In a letter to Dr. Gregory, which I have 
perused, he particularly congratulates him, upon his acquaintance 
w T ith Lord Bacon's works ; adding, " I am very apt to measure a 
man's understanding, by the opinion he entertains of that author." 

It were perhaps to be wished, that he had taken a little more 
pains to illustrate the fundamental rules of that logic, the value 
of which he estimated so highly ; more especially, to point out 
the modifications with which it is applicable to the science of 
mind. Many important hints, indeed, connected with this sub- 
ject, may be collected from different parts of his writings ; but I 
am inclined to think, that a more ample discussion of it in a pre- 
liminary dissertation, might have thrown light on the scope of 
many of his researches, and obviated some of the most plausible 
objections which have been stated to his conclusions. 

It is not, however, my intention at present, to attempt to sup- 
ply a desideratum of so great a magnitude ; — an undertaking 
which, I trust, will find a more convenient place, in the farther 
prosecution of those speculations with respect to the intellectual 
powers which I have already submitted to the public. The 
detached remarks which follow, are offered merely as a supple- 
ment to what I have stated concerning the nature and object of 
this branch of study, in the introduction to the " Philosophy of 
the Human Mind." 

- The influence of Bacon's genius on the subsequent progress 
of physical discovery, has been seldom fairly appreciated ; by 
some writers almost entirely overlooked ; and by others consi- 
dered as the sole cause of the reformation in science which has 
since taken place. Of these two extremes, the latter certainly 
is the least wide of the truth ; for, in the whole history of let- 
ters, no other individual can be mentioned whose exertions have 
had so indisputable an effect in forwarding the intellectual pro- 
gress of mankind. On the other hand, it must be acknowledged, 
that before the era when Bacon appeared, various philosophers 
in different parts of Europe had struck into the right path ; and 
it may perhaps be doubted, whether any one important rule with 
respect to the true method of investigation be contained in his 
works, of which no hint can be traced in those of his predeces- 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 23 

sors. His great merit lay in concentrating their feeble and scat- 
tered lights ; fixing the attention of philosophers on the distin- 
guishing characteristics of true and of false science, by a felicity 
of illustration peculiar to himself, seconded by the commanding 
powers of a bold and figurative eloquence. The method of in- 
vestigation which he recommended had been previously followed 
in every instance in which any solid discovery had been made 
with respect to the laws of nature ; but it had been followed 
accidentally, and without any regular, preconceived design ; and 
it was reserved for him to reduce to rule and method what others 
had effected, either fortuitously, or from some momentary glimpse 
of the truth. It is justly observed by Dr. Reid, that " the man 
who first discovered that cold freezes water, and that heat turns 
it into vapour, proceeded on the same general principle by which 
Newton discovered the law of gravitation and the properties of 
light. His l Regulae Philosophandi ' are maxims of common 
sense, and are practised every day in common life ; and he who 
philosophizes by other rules, either concerning the material sys- 
tem or concerning the mind, mistakes his aim." 

These remarks are not intended to detract from the just glory 
of Bacon ; for they apply to all those, without exception, who 
have systematized the principles of any of the arts. Indeed, 
they apply less forcibly to him than to any other philosopher 
whose studies. have been directed to objects analogous to his; 
inasmuch as we know of no art, of which the rules have been 
reduced successfully into a didactic form, when the art itself was 
as much in infancy as experimental philosophy was when Bacon 
wrote. Nor must it be supposed that the utility was small of 
thus attempting to systematize the accidental processes of unen- 
lightened ingenuity, and to give to the noblest exertions of hu- 
man reason the same advantages of scientific method which have 
contributed so much to ensure the success of genius in pursuits 
of inferior importance. The very philosophical motto which 
Reynolds has so happily prefixed to his " Academical Discourses," 
admits, on this occasion, of a still more appropriate application : 
" Omnia fere quae praeceptis continentur ab ingeniosis hominibus 
fiunt ; sed casu quodam magis quam scientia. Ideoque doctrina 
et animadversio adhibenda est, ut ea quae interdum sine ratione 
nobis occurrunt, semper in nostra potestate sint ; et quoties res 



24 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

postulaverit, a nobis ex prgeparato adhibeantur." — Almost all 
things set forth in precepts are produced by men of high intel- 
lectual powers ; but it is rather by chance than through science. 
Wherefore learning and attention should be applied that we may 
have command even over those things which occur sometimes to 
us without reasoning; so that we may be prepared to make use 
of them when necessary. 

But although a few superior minds seem to have been in some 
measure predisposed for that revolution in science which Bacon 
contributed so powerfully to accomplish, the case was very dif- 
ferent with the great majority of those who were then most dis- 
tinguished for learning and talents. His views were plainly too 
advanced for the age in which he lived ; and, that he was sen- 
sible of this himself, appears from those remarkable passages in 
which he styles himself "the servant of posterity," and "be- 
queaths his fame to future times." Hobbes, who in his early 
youth had enjoyed his friendship, speaks, a considerable time 
after Bacon's death, of experimental philosophy in terms of con- 
tempt ; influenced probably, not a little, by the tendency he 
perceived in the inductive method of inquiry, to undermine the 
foundations of that fabric of scepticism which it was the great 
object of his labours to rear. Nay, even during the course of 
the last century, it has been less from Bacon's own speculations 
than from the examples of sound investigation exhibited by a 
few eminent men, who professed to follow him as their guide, 
that the practical spirit of his writings has been caught by the 
multitude of physical experimentalists over Europe ; truth and 
good sense descending gradually, in this as in other instances, by 
the force of imitation and of early habit, from the higher orders 
of intellect to the lower. In some parts of the continent, more 
especially, the circulation of Bacon's philosophical works has 
been surprisingly slow. It is doubtful whether Des Cartes him- 
self ever perused them ; and, as late as the year 1759, if we may 
credit Montucla, they were very little known in France. The 
introductory discourse prefixed by D'Alembert to the " Ency- 
clopedic," first recommended them in that country to general 
attention. 

The change which has taken place during the two last centu- 
ries in the plan of physical research, and the success which has 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 25 

so remarkably attended it, could not fail to suggest an idea, that 
something analogous might probably be accomplished at a future 
period, with respect to the phenomena of the intellectual world. 
And accordingly, various hints of this kind may be traced in 
different authors, since the era of Newton's discoveries. A me- 
morable instance occurs in the prediction with which that great 
man concludes his " Optics : " — " That if natural philosophy in 
all its parts, by pursuing the inductive method, shall at length be 
perfected, the bounds of moral philosophy will also be enlarged." 
Similar remarks may be found in other publications ; particularly 
in Mr. Hume's " Treatise of Human Nature," where the subject 
is enlarged on with much ingenuity. As far, however, as I am 
able to judge, Dr. Reid was the first who conceived justly and 
clearly the analogy between these two different branches of hu- 
man knowledge, defining with precision the distinct provinces of 
observation and of reflection, in furnishing the data of all our 
reasonings concerning matter and mind ; and demonstrating the 
necessity of a careful separation between the phenomena which 
they respectively exhibit, while we adhere to the same mode of 
philosophizing in investigating the laws of both. 

That so many philosophers should have thus missed their aim, 
in prosecuting the study of the human mind, will appear the less 
surprising, when we consider in how many difficulties, peculiar 
to itself, this science is involved. It is sufficient at present to 
mention those which arise, — from the metaphorical origin of all 
the words which express the intellectual phenomena, — from the 
subtle and fugitive nature of the objects of our reasonings, — from 
the habits of inattention we acquire in early life, to the subjects 
of our consciousness, — and from the prejudices which early im- 
pressions and associations create to warp our opinions. It must 
be remembered, too, that in the science of mind (so imperfectly 
are its logical rules as yet understood) we have not the same 
checks on the abuses of our reasoning powers, which serve to 
guard us against error in our other researches. In physics, a 
speculative mistake is abandoned when contradicted by facts which 
strike the senses. In mathematics, an absurd or inconsistent 
conclusion is admitted as a demonstrative proof of a faulty hypo- 
thesis. But, in those inquiries which relate to the principles of 
human nature, the absurdities and inconsistencies to which we 
are led by almost all the systems hitherto proposed, instead of 



2Q ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

suggesting corrections and improvements on these systems, have 
too frequently had the effect of producing scepticism with re- 
spect to all of them alike. How melancholy is the confession of 
Hume ! — " The intense view of these manifold contradictions 
and imperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me and 
heated my brain, that I am ready to reject all belief and reason- 
ing, and can look upon no opinion even as more probable or 
likely than another." 

Under these discouragements to this branch of study, it affords 
us some comfort to reflect on the great number of important 
facts with respect to the mind which are scattered in the writings 
of philosophers. As the subject of our inquiry here lies within 
our own breast, a considerable mixture of truth may be expected 
even in those systems which are most erroneous ; not only be- 
cause a number of men can scarcely be long imposed on by an 
hypothesis which is perfectly groundless, concerning the objects 
of their own consciousness ; but because it is generally by an 
alliance with truth and with the original principles of human 
nature, that prejudices and associations produce their effects. 
Perhaps it may even be affirmed, that our progress in this re- 
search depends less on the degree of our industry and invention 
than on our sagacity and good sense in separating old discoveries 
from the errors which have been blended with them ; and on 
that candid and dispassionate temper that may prevent us from 
being led astray by the love of novelty, or the affectation of sin- 
gularity. In this respect, the science of mind possesses a very 
important advantage over that which relates to the laws of the 
material world. The former has been cultivated with more or 
less success in all ages and countries : the facts which serve as 
the basis of the latter have, with a very few exceptions, been 
collected during the course of the two last centuries. An ob- 
servation similar to this is applied to systems of ethics by Mr. 
Smith, in his account of the theory of Mandeville ; and the illus- 
tration he gives of it may be extended with equal propriety to 
the science of mind in general. " A system of natural philoso- 
phy," he remarks, " may appear very plausible, and be, for a long 
time, very generally received in the world, and yet have no 
foundation in nature, nor any sort of resemblance to the truth. 
But it is otherwise with systems of moral philosophy. When a 
traveller gives an account of some distant country, he may im- 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. £7 

pose upon our credulity trie most groundless and absurd fictions 
as the most certain matters of fact. But when a person pretends 
to inform us of what passes in our neighbourhood, and of the 
affairs of the very parish we live in, though here too, if we are 
so careless as not to examine things with our own eyes, he may 
deceive us in many respects ; yet the greatest falsehoods which 
he imposes on us must bear some resemblance to the truth, and 
must even have a considerable mixture of truth in them." 

These considerations demonstrate the essential importance, in 
this branch of study, of forming, at the commencement of our 
inquiries, just notions of the criteria of true and false science, 
and of the rules of philosophical investigation. They demon- 
strate, at the same time, that an attention to the rules of philo- 
sophizing, as they are exemplified in the physical researches of 
Newton and his followers, although the best of all preparations 
for an examination of the mental phenomena, is but one of the 
steps necessary to ensure our success. On an accurate compari- 
son of the two subjects, it might probably appear, that after this 
preliminary step has been gained, the most arduous part of the 
process still remains. One thing is certain, that it is not from 
any defect in the power of ratiocination or deduction, that our 
speculative errors chiefly arise, — a fact of which we have a 
decisive proof in the facility with which most students may be 
taught the mathematical and physical sciences, when compared 
with the difficulty of leading their minds to the truth on ques- 
tions of morals and politics. 

The logical rules which lay the foundation of sound and useful 
conclusions concerning the laws of this internal world, although 
not altogether overlooked by Lord Bacon, were plainly not the 
principal object of his work; and what he has written on the 
subject, consists chiefly of detached hints dropt casually in the 
course of other speculations. A comprehensive view of the 
sciences and arts dependent on the philosophy of the. human 
mind, exhibiting the relations which they bear to each other, and 
to the general system of human knowledge, would form a natural 
and useful introduction to the study of these logical principles ; 
but such a view remains still a desideratum, after all the advances 
made towards it by Bacon and D'Alembert. Indeed, in the pre- 
sent improved state of things, much is wanting to complete and 
perfect that more simple part of their intellectual map which 



28 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

relates to the material universe. — Of the inconsiderable progress 
hitherto made towards a just delineation of the method to be 
pursued in studying the mental phenomena, no other evidence is 
necessary than this, That the sources of error and false judgment, 
so peculiarly connected, in consequence of the association of 
ideas, with studies in which our best interests are immediately 
and deeply concerned, have never yet been investigated with 
such accuracy, as to afford effectual aid to the student, in his 
attempts to counteract their influence. One of these sources 
alone, — that which arises from the imperfections of language, — 
furnishes an exception to the general remark. It attracted, for- 
tunately, the particular notice of Locke, whose observations with 
respect to it, compose, perhaps, the most valuable part of his 
philosophical writings ; and, since the time of Condillac, the sub- 
ject has been still more deeply analyzed by others. Even on 
this article, much yet remains to be done ; but enough has been 
already accomplished to justify the profound aphorism in which 
Bacon pointed it out to the attention of his followers : — 
" Credunt homines rationem suam verbis imperare ; sed fit etiam 
ut verba vim suam super rationem retorqueant."* — Men suppose 
that their reason has command over words. Still it also happens 
that words exercise reaction on reason. (Nov. Organ, lix.) 

Into these logical discussions concerning the means of advanc- 
ing the philosophy of human nature, Dr. Reid has seldom 
entered ; and still more rarely has he indulged himself in tracing 
the numerous relations, by which this philosophy is connected 
with the practical business of life. But he has done what was 
still more essential at the time he wrote ; he has exemplified, 
with tlie happiest success, that method of investigation by which 
alone any solid progress can be made ; directing his inquiries to 
a subject which forms a necessary groundwork for the labours of 
his successors, — an analysis of the various powers and principles 
belonging to our constitution. Of the importance of this under- 
taking, it is sufficient to observe, that it stands somewhat, 
although I confess not altogether, in the same relation to the dif- 
ferent branches of intellectual and moral science, (such as gram- 

* This passage of Bacon forms the motto to a very ingenious and philo- 
sophical dissertation, published by M. Prevost of Geneva,) entitled, " Des 
Signes envisages relativement a leur Influence sur la Formation des Idees." 
Paris, an 8. 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. £9 

mar, rhetoric, logic, ethics, natural theology, and politics,) in 
which the anatomy of the human body stands to the different 
branches of physiology and pathology. And as a course of medical 
education naturally, or rather necessarily, begins with a general 
survey of man's animal frame ; so, I apprehend, that the proper, 
or rather the essential preparation for those studies which regard 
our nobler concerns, is an examination of the principles which 
belong to man as an intelligent, active, social, and moral being. 
Nor does the importance of such an analysis rest here ; it exerts 
an influence over all those sciences and arts which are connected 
with the material world ; and the philosophy of Bacon itself, 
while it points out the road to physical truth, is but a branch of 
the philosophy of the human mind. 

The substance of these remarks is admirably expressed by Mr. 
Hume in the following passage, — allowances being made for a 
few trifling peculiarities of expression, borrowed from the the- 
ories which were prevalent at the time when he wrote : " 'Tis 
evident, that all the sciences have a relation, greater or less, to 
human nature, and that, however wide any of them may seem to 
run from it, they still return back by one passage or another. 
Even mathematics, natural philosophy, and natural religion, are 
in some measure dependent on the science of man ; since they 
lie under the cognizance of men, and are judged of by their 
powers and faculties. It is impossible to tell what changes and 
improvements we might make in these sciences, were we tho- 
roughly acquainted with the extent and force of human under- 
standing, and could explain the nature of the ideas we employ, 
and of the operations we perform in our reasonings. 

" If, therefore, the sciences of mathematics, natural philoso- 
phy, and natural religion, have such a dependence on the know- 
ledge of man, what may be expected in the other sciences, whose 
connexion with human nature is more close and intimate ? The 
sole end of logic is to explain the principles and operations of 
our reasoning faculty, and the nature of our ideas : morals and 
criticism regard our tastes and sentiments : and politics consider 
men as united in society, and dependent on each other. In 
these four sciences of logic, morals, criticism, and politics, is 
comprehended almost every thing which it can any way import 
us to be acquainted with, or which can tend either to the improve- 
ment or ornament of the human mind. 



30 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

" Here, then, is the only expedient from which we can hope 
for success in our philosophical researches ; to leave the tedious, 
lingering method, which we have hitherto followed ; and, instead 
of taking, now and then, a castle or village on the frontier, to 
march up directly to the capital or centre of these sciences, to 
human nature itself; which being once masters of, we may 
every where else hope for an easy victory. From this station, 
we may extend our conquests over all those sciences which more 
intimately concern human life, and may afterwards proceed at 
leisure to discover more fully those which are the objects of 
pure curiosity. There is no question of importance, whose deci- 
sion is not comprised in the science of man ; and there is none 
which can be decided with any certainty, before we become 
acquainted with that science." 

To prepare the way for the accomplishment of the design so 
forcibly recommended in the foregoing quotation, by exempli- 
fying, in an analysis of our most important intellectual and 
active principles, the only method of carrying it successfully into 
execution, was the great object of Dr. Reid, in all his various 
philosophical publications. In examining these principles, he 
had chiefly in view a vindication of those fundamental laws of 
belief which form the groundwork of human knowledge, against 
the attacks made on their authority in some modern systems of 
scepticism ; leaving to his successors the more agreeable task of 
applying the philosophy of the mind to its practical uses. On 
the analysis and classification of our powers, which he has pro- 
posed, much room for improvement must have been left in so 
vast an undertaking ; but imperfections of this kind do not neces- 
sarily affect the justness of his conclusions, even where they 
may suggest to future inquirers the advantages of a simpler 
arrangement, and a more definite phraseology. Nor must it be 
forgotten, that, in consequence of the plan he has followed, the 
mistakes which may be detected in particular parts of his works, 
imply no such weakness in the fabric he has reared, as might 
have been justly apprehended, had he presented a connected 
system founded on gratuitous hypotheses, or on arbitrary defini- 
tions. The detections, on the contrary, of his occasional errorSj 
may be expected, from the invariable consistency and harmony 
of truth, to throw new lights on those parts of his work, where 
his inquiries have been more successful ; as the correction of a 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. gj[ 

particular misstatement in an authentic history, is often found, 
by completing an imperfect link, or reconciling a seeming con- 
tradiction, to dispel the doubts which hung over the most faith- 
ful and accurate details of the narrative. 

In Dr. Reid's first performance, he confined himself entirely 
to the five senses, and the principles of our nature necessarily 
connected with them ; reserving the further prosecution of the 
subject for a future period. At that time, indeed, he seems to 
have thought, that a more comprehensive examination of the 
mind was an enterprise too great for one individual. " The 
powers," he observes, " of memory, of imagination, of taste, of 
reasoning, of moral perception, the will, the passions, the affec- 
tions, and all the active powers of the soul, present a boundless 
field of philosophical disquisition, which the author of this 
* Inquiry' is far from thinking himself able to explore with 
accuracy. Many authors of ingenuity, ancient and modern, 
have made incursions into this vast territory, and have communi- 
cated useful observations ; but there is reason to believe, that 
those who have pretended to give us a map of the whole, have 
satisfied themselves with a very inaccurate and incomplete sur- 
vey. If Galileo had attempted a complete system of natural 
philosophy, he had probably done little service to mankind ; 
but, by confining himself to what was within his comprehension, 
he laid the foundation of a system of knowledge, which rises by 
degrees, and does honour to the human understanding. Newton, 
building upon this foundation, and in like manner, confining his 
inquiries to the law of gravitation, and the properties of light, 
performed wonders. If he had attempted a great deal more, he 
had done a great deal less, and perhaps nothing at all. Ambi- 
tious of following such great examples, with unequal steps, alas ! 
and unequal force, we have attempted an inquiry into one little 
corner only, of the human mind ; that corner which seems to be 
most exposed to vulgar observation, and to be most easily com- 
prehended ; and yet, if we have delineated it justly, it must be 
acknowledged, that the accounts heretofore given of it were very 
lame, and wide of the truth." 

From these observations, when compared with the magnitude 
of the work which the author lived to execute, there is some 
ground for supposing, that, in the progress of his researches, he 



32 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

became more and more sensible of the mutual connexion and 
dependence which exist among the conclusions we form con- 
cerning the various principles of human nature ; even concern- 
ing those which seem, on a superficial view, to have the most 
remote relation to each other: and it was fortunate for the 
world, that, in this respect, he was induced to extend his views 
so far beyond the limits of his original design. His examina- 
tion, indeed, of the powers of external perception, and of the 
questions immediately connected with them, bears marks of a 
still more minute diligence and accuracy than appear in some of 
his speculations concerning the other parts of our frame ; and 
what he has written on the former subject, in his " Inquiry into 
the Human Mind," is evidently more highly finished both in 
matter and form, than the volumes which he published in his 
more advanced years. The value, however, of these is inesti- 
mable to future adventurers in the same arduous undertaking ; 
not only, in consequence of the aids they furnish as a rough 
draught of the field to be examined, but, by the example they 
exhibit of a method of investigation on such subjects, hitherto 
very imperfectly understood by philosophers. It is by the ori- 
ginality of this method, so systematically pursued in all his 
researches, still more than by the importance of his particular 
conclusions, that he stands so conspicuously distinguished among 
those who have hitherto prosecuted analytically the study of man. 
I have heard it sometimes mentioned, as a subject of regret, 
that the writers who have applied themselves to this branch of 
knowledge, have, in general, aimed at a great deal more than it 
was possible to accomplish ; extending their researches to all 
the different parts of our constitution, while a long life might 
be well employed in examining and describing the phenomena 
connected with any one particular faculty. Dr. Reid, in a pas- 
sage already quoted from his " Inquiry," might have been sup- 
posed to give some countenance to this opinion ; if his own 
subsequent labours did not so strongly sanction the practice in 
question. The truth, I apprehend, is, that such detached re- 
searches concerning the human mind, can seldom be attempted 
with much hope of success ; and that those who have recom- 
mended them, have not attended sufficiently to the circumstances 
which so remarkably distinguish this study from that which lias 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 33 

for its object the philosophy of the material world. A few 
remarks in illustration of this proposition seem to me to be 
necessary, in order to justify the reasonableness of Dr. Reid's 
undertaking ; and they will be found to apply with still greater 
force, to the labours of such as may wish to avail themselves of 
a similar analysis in explaining the varieties of human genius 
ana character, or in developing the latent capacities of the 
youthful mind. 

One consideration of a more general nature is, in the first 
place, worthy of notice ; that in the infancy of every science, 
the grand and fundamental desideratum is a bold and compre- 
hensive outline : — somewhat for the same reason, that, in the 
cultivation of an extensive country, forests must be cleared, and 
wildernesses reclaimed, before the limits of private property are 
fixed with accuracy ; and long before the period, when the 
divisions and subdivisions of separate possessions give rise to the 
details of a curious and refined husbandry. The speculations 
of Lord Bacon embraced all the objects of human knowledge. 
Those of Newton and Boyle were confined to physics ; but 
included an astonishing range of the material universe. The 
labours of their successors, in our own times, have been employed 
with no less zeal, in pursuing those more particular, but equally 
abstruse investigations, . in which they were unable to engage, 
for want of a sufficient stock, both of facts and of general prin- 
ciples ; and which did not perhaps interest their curiosity in any 
considerable degree. 

If these observations are allowed to hold to a certain extent 
with respect to all the sciences, they apply in a more peculiar 
manner to the subjects treated of in Dr. Reid's writings ; — -sub- 
jects which are all so intimately connected, that it may be doubted, 
if it be possible to investigate any one completely, without some 
general acquaintance, at least, with the rest. Even the theory 
of the understanding may receive important lights from an 
examination of the active and the moral powers ; the state of 
which in the mind of every individual, will be found to have a 
powerful influence on his intellectual character: — while, on the 
other hand, an accurate analysis of the faculties of the under- 
standing, would probably go far to obviate the sceptical difficul- 
ties which have been started concerning the origin of our moral 



34 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

ideas. It appears to me, therefore, that, whatever be the depart- 
ment of mental science that we propose more particularly to 
cultivate, it is necessary to begin with a survey of human nature 
in all its various parts ; studying these parts, however, not so 
much on their own account, as with a reference to the applica- 
tions of which our conclusions are susceptible to our favourite 
purpose. The researches of Dr. Reid, when considered carefully 
in the relation which they bear to each other, afford numberless 
illustrations of the truth of this remark. His leading design was 
evidently to overthrow the modern system of scepticism ; and at 
every successive step of his progress, new and unexpected lights 
break in on his fundamental principles. 

It is, however, chiefly in their practical application to the 
conduct of the understanding, and the culture of the heart, that 
such partial views are likely to be dangerous ; for here, they 
tend not only to mislead our theoretical conclusions, but to 
counteract our improvement and happiness. Of this I am so 
fully convinced, that the most faulty theories of human nature, 
provided only they embrace the whole of it, appear to me less 
mischievous in their probable effects, than those more accurate 
and microscopical researches which are habitually confined to 
one particular corner of our constitution. It is easy to conceive, 
that where the attention is wholly engrossed with the intellectual 
powers, the moral principles will be in danger of running to 
waste : and it is no less certain, on the other hand, that, by 
confining our care to the moral constitution alone, we may suffer 
the understanding to remain under the influence of unhappy 
prejudices, and destitute of those just and enlightened views, 
without which the worthiest dispositions are of little use, either 
to ourselves or to society. An exclusive attention to any one 
of the subordinate parts of our frame, — to the culture of taste 
(for example) or of the argumentative powers, or even to the 
refinement of our moral sentiments and feelings, — must be 
attended with a hazard proportionally greater. 

" In forming the human character," says Bacon, in a passage 
which Lord Bolingbroke has pronounced to be one of the finest 
and deepest in his writings, " we must not proceed, as a statuary 
does in forming a statue, who works sometimes on the face, 
sometimes on the limbs, sometimes on the folds of the drapery ; 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. g/j 

but we must proceed (and it is in our power to proceed) as nature 
does in forming a flower, or any other of her productions ; — she 
throws out altogether, and at once, the whole system of being, 
and the rudiments of all the parts. ' Rudimenta partium omnium 
simul parit et producit.' " * 

Of this passage, so strongly marked with Bacon's capacious 
intellect, and so richly adorned with his " philosophical fancy,'* 
I will not weaken the impression by any comment ; and, indeed, 
to those who do not intuitively perceive its evidence, no comment 
would be useful. 

In what I have hitherto said of Dr. Reid's speculations, I have 
confined myself to such general views of the scope of his re- 
searches, and of his mode of philosophizing, as seemed most 
likely to facilitate the perusal of his works to those readers who 
have not been much conversant with these abstract disquisitions. 
A slight review of some of the more important and fundamental 
objections which have been proposed to his doctrines, may, I 
hope, be useful as a farther preparation for the same course of 
study. 

Of these objections, the four following appear to me to be 
chiefly entitled to attention. 

1. That he has assumed gratuitously in all his reasonings, 
that theory concerning the human soul, which the scheme of 
materialism calls in question. 

2. That his views tend to damp the ardour of philosophical 
curiosity, by stating as ultimate facts, phenomena which may 
be resolved into principles more simple and general. 

3. That, by an unnecessary multiplication of original or 
instinctive principles, he has brought the science of mind into 
a state more perplexed and unsatisfactory, than that in which it 
was left by Locke and his successors. 

4. That his philosophy, by sanctioning an appeal from the 
decisions of the learned to the voice of the multitude, is unfa- 
vourable to a spirit of free inquiry, and lends additional stability 
to popular errors. 

1. With respect to Dr. Reid's supposed assumption of a 

* In the foregoing paragraph, I have borrowed (with a very trifling altera- 
tion) Lord Bolingbroke's words, in a beautiful paraphrase on Bacon's remark. 
— See his " Idea of a Patriot King." 

d2 



36 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

• 

doubtful hypothesis concerning the nature of the thinking and 
sentient principle, it is almost sufficient for me to observe, that 
the charge is directed against that very point of his philosophy 
in which it is most completely invulnerable. The circumstance 
which peculiarly characterises the inductive science of mind is, 
that it professes to abstain from all speculations concerning its 
nature and essence ; confining the attention entirely to pheno- 
mena, for which we have the evidence of consciousness, and to the 
laws by which these phenomena are regulated. In this respect, 
it differs equally, in its scope, from the pneumatological discus- 
sions of the schools ; and from the no less visionary theories, so 
loudly vaunted by the physiological metaphysicians of more 
modern times. Compared with the first, it differs, as the in- 
quiries of the mechanical philosophers concerning the laws of 
moving bodies, differ from the discussions of the ancient sophists 
concerning the existence and the nature of motion. Compared 
with the other, the difference is analogous to what exists between 
the conclusions of Newton concerning the law of gravitation, 
and his query concerning the invisible ether of which he sup- 
posed it might, possibly, be the effect. The facts which this 
inductive science aims at ascertaining, rest on their own proper 
evidence ; — an evidence unconnected with all these hypotheses, 
and which would not, in the smallest degree, be affected, although 
the truth of any one of them should be fully established. It is 
not, therefore, on account of its inconsistency with any favourite 
opinions of my own, that I would oppose the disquisitions either 
of scholastic pneumatology, or of physiological metaphysics ; 
but because I consider them as an idle waste of time and genius 
on questions where our conclusions can neither be verified nor 
overturned by an appeal to experiment or observation. Sir 
Isaac Newton's query concerning the cause of gravitation was 
certainly not inconsistent with his own discoveries concerning its 
laws ; but what would have been the consequences to the world, 
if he had indulged himself in the prosecution of hypothetical 
theories with respect to the former, instead of directing his 
astonishing powers to an investigation of the latter ? 

That the general spirit of Dr. Reid's philosophy is hostile to 
the conclusions of the materialists, is indeed a fact : not, how- 
ever, because his system rests on the contrary hypothesis as a 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. fif 

fundamental principle, but because his inquiries have a powerful 
tendency to wean the understanding gradually from those obsti- 
nate associations and prejudices, to which the common mechani- 
cal theories of mind owe all their plausibility. It is, in truth, 
much more from such examples of sound research concerning 
the laws of thought, than from any direct metaphysical refuta- 
tion, that a change is to be expected in the opinions of those 
who have been accustomed to confound together two classes of 
phenomena, so completely and essentially different. — But this 
view of the subject does not belong to the present argument. 

It has been recommended of late, by a medical author of great 
reputation, to those who wish to study the human mind, to begin 
with preparing themselves for the task by the study of anatomy. 
I must confess, I cannot perceive the advantages of this order 
of investigation ; as the anatomy of the body does not seem to 
me more likely to throw light on the philosophy of the mind, 
than an analysis of the mind to throw light on the physiology of 
the body. To ascertain, indeed, the general laws of their con- 
nexion from facts established by observation or experiment, is a 
reasonable and most interesting object of philosophical curiosity ; 
and in this inquiry, (which was long ago proposed and recom- 
mended by Lord Bacon,) a knowledge of the constitution both 
of mind and body is indispensably requisite ; but even here, if 
we wish to proceed on firm ground, the two classes of facts must 
be kept completely distinct ; so that neither of them may be 
warped or distorted, in consequence of theories suggested by 
their supposed relations or analogies.* Thus, in many of the 
phenomena connected with custom and habit, there is ample 
scope for investigating general laws, both with respect to our 
mental and our corporeal frame ; but what light do we derive 
from such information concerning this part of our constitution 
as is contained in the following sentence of Locke ? " Habits 
seem to be but trains of motion in the animal spirits, which, 
once set a-going, continue in the same steps they had been 
used to, which by often treading are worn into a smooth path." 
In like manner, the laws which regulate the connexion between 
the mind and our external organs, in the case of perception, 
have furnished a very fertile subject of examination to some 

* Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind, pp. 11, 12, 2nd edit. 



38 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS % m 

of the best of our modern philosophers ; but how impotent does 
the genius of Newton itself appear, when it attempts to shoot 
the gulf which separates the sensible world, and the sentient 
principle ? " Is not the sensorium of animals," he asks in one 
of his queries, " the place where the sentient substance is pre- 
sent, and to which the sensible species of things are brought 
through the nerves and brain, that they may be perceived by the 
mind present in that place ?" 

It ought to be remembered also, that this inquiry, with respect 
to the laws regulating the connexion between our bodily organ- 
ization, and the phenomena subjected to our own consciousness, 
is but one particular department of the philosophy of the mind ; 
and that there still remains a wide and indeed boundless region, 
where all our data must be obtained from our own mental ope- 
rations. In examining, for instance, the powers of judgment 
and reasoning, let any person of sound understanding, after 
perusing the observations of Bacon on the different classes of 
our prejudices, or those of Locke on the abuse of words, turn 
his attention to the speculations of some of our contemporary 
theorists ; and he will at once perceive the distinction between 
the two modes of investigation which I wish at present to con- 
trast. " Reasoning," says one of the most ingenious and original 
of these, " is that operation of the sensorium, by which we excite 
two or many tribes of ideas ; and then re-excite the ideas, in 
which they differ or correspond. If we determine this difference, 
it is called Judgment ; if we in vain endeavour to determine it, 
it is called Doubting. — If we re-excite the ideas in which they 
differ, it is called Distinguishing ; if we re-excite those in which 
they correspond, it is called Comparing."* — In what acceptation 
the word idea is to be understood in the foregoing passage, may 
be learned from the following definition of the same author : — 
" The word idea has various meanings in the writers of meta- 
physics : it is here used simply for those notions of external 
things, which our organs of sense bring us acquainted with 
originally ; and is defined, a contraction, or motion, or configu- 
ration, of the fibres, which constitute the immediate organ of 
sense, "f Mr. Hume, who was less of a physiologist than Dr. 
Darwin, has made use of a language by no means so theoretical 

* Zoonomia, vol. i. p. 181, 3rd edit. f Ibid. vol. i. pp. 11, 12. 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 39 

and arbitrary ; but still widely removed from the simplicity and 
precision essentially necessary in studies, where everything de- 
pends on the cautious use of terms. " Belief," according to 
him, is "a lively idea related to or associated with a present 
impression ; memory is the faculty by w T hich we repeat our im- 
pressions, so as that they retain a considerable degree of their 
first vivacity, and are somewhat intermediate betwixt an idea 
and an impression." 

According to the views of Dr. Reid, the terms w T hich express 
the simple powers of the mind, are considered as unsusceptible 
of definition or explanation ; the words, feeling, for example, 
knowledge, will, doubt, belief, being, in this respect, on the 
same footing with the words, green or scarlet, sweet or bitter. 
To the names of these mental operations, all men annex some 
notions, more or less distinct ; and the only way of conveying 
to them notions more correct, is by teaching them to exercise 
their own powers of reflection. The definitions quoted from 
Hume and Darwin, even if they were more unexceptionable in 
point of phraseology, would, for these reasons, be unphilosophi- 
cal, as attempts to simplify what is incapable of analysis ; but, 
as they are actually stated, they not only envelop truth in mys- 
tery, but lay a foundation, at the very outset, for an erroneous 
theory. It is worth while to add, that of the two theories in 
question, that of Darwin, how inferior soever, in the estimation 
of competent judges, as a philosophical work, is by far the best 
calculated to impose on a very wide circle of readers, by the 
mixture it exhibits of crude and visionary metaphysics, with 
those important facts and conclusions which might be expected 
from the talents and experience of such a writer, in the present 
advanced state of medical and physiological science. The ques- 
tions which have been hitherto confined to a few, prepared for 
such discussions by habits of philosophical study, are thus sub- 
mitted to the consideration, — not only of the cultivated and 
enlightened minds, which adorn the medical profession, — but of 
the half-informed multitude who follow the medical trade. Nor 
is it to be doubted, that many of these will give the author 
credit upon subjects of wmich they feel themselves incompetent 
to judge, for the same ability which he displays within their own 
professional sphere. The hypothetical principles assumed by 



40 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

Hume are intelligible to those only who are familiarized to the 
language of the schools ; and his ingenuity and elegance, capti- 
vating as they are to men of taste and refinement, possess slight 
attractions to the majority of such as are most likely to be. misled 
by his conclusions. 

Aftei all, I do not apprehend that the physiological theories 
concerning the mind, which have made so much noise of late, 
will produce a very lasting impression. The splendour of Dr. 
Darwin's accomplishments could not fail to bestow a temporary 
importance on whatever opinions were sanctioned by his name ; 
as the chemical discoveries which have immortalized that of 
Priestley, have, for a while, recalled from oblivion the reveries 
of Hartley. But, abstracting from these accidental instances, in 
which human reason seems to have held a retrograde course, 
there has certainly been, since the time of Des Cartes, a con- 
tinual, and, on the whole, a very remarkable approach to the in- 
ductive plan of studying human nature. We may trace this in 
the writings even of those who profess to consider thought merely 
as an agitation of the brain; in the writings more particularly of 
Hume and of Helvetius ; both of whom, although they may 
have occasionally expressed themselves in an unguarded manner 
concerning the nature of mind, have, in their most useful and 
practical disquisitions, been prevented, by their own good sense, 
from blending any theory with respect to the causes of the intel- 
lectual phenomena with the history of facts, or the investigation 
of general laws. The authors who form the most conspicuous 
exceptions to this gradual progress, consist chiefly of men whose 
errors may be easily accounted for, by the prejudices connected 
with their circumscribed habits of observation and inquiry ; of 
physiologists, accustomed to attend to that part alone of the 
human frame which the knife of the anatomist can lay open ; or 
of chemists, who enter on the analysis of thought, fresh from the 
decompositions of the laboratory ; carrying into the theory of 
mind itself (what Bacon expressively calls) " the smoke and tar- 
nish of the furnace." Of the value of such pursuits, none can 
think more highly than myself ; but I must be allowed to ob- 
serve, that the most distinguished pre-eminence in them does 
not necessarily imply a capacity of collected and abstracted re- 
flection, or an understanding superior to the prejudices of early 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 41 

association, and the illusions of popular language. T will not 
go so far as Cicero, when he ascribes to those who possess these 
advantages a more than ordinary vigour of intellect : " Magni 
est ingenii revocare mentem a sensibus, et cogitationem a con- 
suetudine abducere." "It is characteristic of great genius to be 
able to call away the mind from objects of sense, and abstract 
the thoughts from those that are customary." I would only 
claim for them the merit of patient and cautious research ; and 
would exact from their antagonists the same qualifications.* 

In offering these remarks, I have no wish to exalt any one 
branch of useful knowledge at the expense of another, but to 
combat prejudices equally fatal to the progress of them all. With 
the same view, I cannot help taking notice of a prevailing, but 
very mistaken idea, that the formation of a hypothetical system 
is a stronger proof of inventive genius than the patient investi- 
gation of nature, in the way of induction. To form a system, 
appears to the young and inexperienced understanding a species 
of creation ; to ascend slowly to general conclusions, from the 
observation and comparison of particular facts, is to comment 
servilely on the works of another. 

No opinion surely can be more groundless. To fix on a few 
principles, or even on a single principle as the foundation of a 
theory ; and, by an artful statement of supposed facts, aided by 
a dexterous use of language, to give a plausible explanation, by 
means of it, of an immense number of phenomena; is within* 
the reach of most men whose talents have been a little exercised 
among the subtleties of the schools : whereas, to follow nature 
through all her varieties with a quick yet an exact eye ; to re- 

* A writer of great talents (after having reproached Dr. Reid with " a gross 
ignorance, disgraceful to the university of which he was a member,") boasts of 
the trifling expense of time and thought which it had cost himself to overturn 
his philosophy. " Dr. Oswald is pleased to pay me a compliment in saying, 
that ' I might employ myself to more advantage to the public, by pursuing 
other branches of science, than by deciding rashly on a subject which he sees I 
have not studied.' In return to this compliment, I shall not affront him by 
telling him how very little of my time this business has hitherto taken up. 
If he alludes to my experiments, I can assure him that I have lost no time at 
all ; for having been intent upon such as require the use of a burning lens, I 
believe I have not lost one hour of sunshine on this account. And the public 
may perhaps be informed, some time or other, of what I have been doing in 
the sun, as well as in the shade." — Examination of Reid's Inquiry, &c. 
p. 357. See also pp. 101, 102, of the same work. 



42 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

cord faithfully what she exhibits, and to record nothing more ; — 
to trace, amidst the diversity of her operations, the simple and 
comprehensive laws by which they are regulated, and sometimes 
to guess at the beneficent purposes to which they are subser- 
vient, — may be safely pronounced to be the highest effort of a 
created intelligence. And, accordingly, the number of inge- 
nious theorists has, in every age, been great ; that of sound phi- 
losophers has been wonderfully small, or rather, they are only 
beginning now to have a glimpse of their way, in consequence 
of the combined lights furnished by their predecessors. 

Des Cartes aimed at a complete system of physics, deduced a 
priori from the abstract suggestions of his own reason : Newton 
aspired no higher than at a faithful " interpretation of nature," 
in a few of the more general laws which she presents to our no- 
tice ; and yet the intellectual power displayed in the voluminous 
writings of the former vanishes into nothing, when compared 
with what we may trace in a single page of the latter. On this 
occasion a remark of Lord Bacon appears singularly apposite ; 
that " Alexander and Cassar, though they acted without the aid 
of magic or prodigy, performed exploits that are truly greater 
than what fable reports of King Arthur or Amadis de Gaul." 

I shall only add farther on this head, that the last observation 
holds more strictly with respect to the philosophy of the human 
mind than any other branch of science ; for there is no subject 
whatever on which it is so easy to form theories calculated to 
impose on the multitude ; and none where the discovery of truth 
is attended with so many difficulties. One great cause of this 
is, the analogical or theoretical terms employed in ordinary lan- 
guage to express every thing relating either to our intellectual 
or active powers ; in consequence of which, specious explana- 
tions of the most mysterious phenomena may be given to super- 
ficial inquirers ; while, at the same time, the labour of just 
investigation is increased to an incalculable degree. 

2. To allege, that in this circumscription of the field of our 
inquiries concerning the mind, there is any tendency to repress 
a reasonable and philosophical curiosity, is a charge no less un- 
founded than the former; inasmuch as every physical inquiry 
concerning the material world is circumscribed by limits pre- 
cisely analogous. In all our investigations, whatever their sub- 
ject maybe, the business of philosophy is confined to a reference 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D 43 

of particular facts to other facts more general ; and our most 
successful researches must at length terminate in some law of 
nature, of which no explanation can be given. In its applica- 
tion to Dr. Reid's writings, this objection has, I think, been 
more pointedly directed against his reasonings concerning the 
process of nature in perception ; a part of his writings w 7 hich 
(as it is of fundamental importance in his general system) he 
has laboured with peculiar care. The result is, indeed, by no 
means nattering to the pride of those theorists who profess to 
explain every thing ; for it amounts to an acknowledgment, that, 
after all the lights which anatomy and physiology supply, the 
information we obtain, by means of our senses, concerning the 
existence and the qualities of matter, is no less incomprehen- 
sible to our faculties than it appears to the most illiterate pea- 
sant ; and that all we have gained is a more precise and complete 
acquaintance with some particulars in our animal economy, — 
highly interesting indeed when regarded in their proper light, 
as accessions to our physical knowledge, but, considered in con- 
nexion with the philosophy of the mind, affording only a more 
accurate statement of the astonishing phenomena which w r e would 
vainly endeavour to explain. This language has been charged, 
but most unjustly and ignorantly, w T ith mysticism ; for the same 
charge may be brought, with equal fairness, against all the most 
important discoveries in the sciences. It was in truth the very 
objection urged against Newton, when his adversaries contended, 
that gravity was to be ranked with the occult qualities of the 
schoolmen, till its mechanical cause should be assigned ; and the 
answer given to this objection by Sir Isaac Newton's commen- 
tator, Mr. Maclaurin, may be literally applied, in the instance 
before us, to the inductive philosophy of the human mind. 

" The opponents of Newton, finding nothing to object to his 
observations and reasonings, pretended to find a resemblance 
between his doctrines and the exploded tenets of the scholastic 
philosophy. They triumphed mightily in treating gravity as an 
occult quality, because he did not pretend to deduce this prin- 
ciple fully from its cause. I know not that ever it was made an 
objection to the circulation of the blood, that there is no small 
difficulty in accounting for it mechanically. They, too, who 
first extended gravity to air, vapour, and to all bodies round the 



44 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

earth, had their praise ; though the cause of gravity was as ob- 
scure as before ; or rather appeared more mysterious, after they 
had shown, that there was no body found near the earth, ex- 
empt from gravity, that might be supposed to be its cause. Why 
then were his admirable discoveries, by which this principle 
was extended over the universe, so ill relished by some philoso- 
phers ? The truth is, he had, with great evidence, overthrown 
the boasted schemes by which they pretended to unravel all the 
mysteries of nature ; and the philosophy he introduced, in place 
of them, carrying with it a sincere confession of our being far 
from a complete and perfect knowledge of it, could not please 
those who had been accustomed to imagine themselves possessed 
of the eternal reasons and primary causes of ail things. 

" It was, however, no new thing that this philosophy should 
meet with opposition. All the useful discoveries that were made 
in former times, and particularly in the seventeenth century, had 
to struggle with the prejudices of those who had accustomed 
themselves, not so much as to think but in a certain systematic 
way ; who could not be prevailed on to abandon their favourite 
schemes, while they were able to imagine the least pretext for 
continuing the dispute. Every art and talent was displayed to 
support their falling cause ; no aid seemed foreign to them that 
could in any manner annoy their adversary ; and such often was 
their obstinacy, that truth was able to make little progress, till 
they were succeeded by younger persons, who had not so strongly 
imbibed their prejudices." 

These excellent observations are not the less applicable to the 
subject now under consideration, that the part of Dr. Reid's 
writings which suggested the quotation, leads only to the correc- 
tion of an inveterate prejudice, not to any new general conclu- 
sion. It is probable, indeed, (now that the Ideal Theory has in 
a great measure disappeared from our late metaphysical systems,) 
that those who have a pleasure in detracting from the merits of 
their predecessors, may be disposed to represent it as an idle 
waste of labour and ingenuity to have entered into a serious 
refutation of an hypothesis at once gratuitous and inconceivable. 
A different judgment, however, will be formed by such as are 
acquainted with the extensive influence which, from the earliest 
accounts of science, this single prejudice has had in vitiating 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 45 

almost every branch of the philosophy of the mind ; and who, at 
the same time, recollect the names of the illustrious men, by 
whom, in more modern times, it has been adopted as an incon- 
trovertible principle. It is sufficient for me to mention those of 
Berkeley, Hume, Locke, Clarke, and Newton. To the two first 
of these, it has served as the basis of their sceptical conclusions, 
which seem indeed to follow from it as necessary consequences ; 
while the others repeatedly refer to it in their reasonings, as one 
of those facts concerning the mind, of which it would be equally 
superfluous to attempt a proof or a refutation. 

I have enlarged on this part of Dr. Reid's writings the more 
fully as he was himself disposed, on all occasions, to rest upon it 
his chief merit as an author. In proof of this, I shall transcribe 
a few sentences from a letter of his to Dr. Gregory, dated 20th 
August, 1790. 

" It would be want of candour not to own, that I think there 
is some merit in what you are pleased to call my philosophy ; but 
I think it lies chiefly in having called in question the common 
theory of ideas or images of things in the mind being the only 
objects of thought ; a theory founded on natural prejudices, and 
so universally received as to be interwoven with the structure of 
language. Yet were I to give you a detail of what led me to 
call in question this theory, after I had long held it as self-evi- 
dent and unquestionable, you would think, as I do, that there 
was much of chance in the matter. " The discovery was the birth 
of time, not of genius ; and Berkeley and Hume did more to 
bring it to light than the man that hit upon it. I think there is 
hardly any thing that can be called mine in the philosophy of 
the mind which does not follow with ease from the detection of 
this prejudice. 

" I must, therefore, beg of you most earnestly, to make no 
contrast in my favour to the disparagement of my predecessors in 
the same pursuit. I can truly say of them, and shall always 
avow, what you are pleased to say of me, that but for the assist- 
ance I have received from their writings, I never could have 
wrote or thought what I have done." 

3. Somewhat connected with the last objection are the cen- 
sures which have been so frequently bestowed on Dr. Reid for 
an unnecessary and unsystematical multiplication of original or 
instinctive principles. 



46 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

In reply to these censures, I have little to add to what I have 
remarked on the same topic, in the " Philosophy of the Human 
Mind." That the fault which is thus ascribed to Dr. Reid has 
been really committed by some ingenious writers in this part of 
the island, I most readily allow ; nor will I take upon me to 
assert, that he has in no instance fallen into it himself. Such 
instances, however, will be found, on an accurate examination of 
his works, to be comparatively few, and to bear a very trifling 
proportion to those in which he has most successfully and deci- 
sively displayed his acuteness in exposing the premature and 
flimsy generalizations of his predecessors. 

A certain degree of leaning to that extreme to which Dr. Reid 
seems to have inclined, was, at the time when he wrote, much 
safer than the opposite bias. From the earliest ages, the sci- 
ences in general, and more particularly the science of the human 
mind, have been vitiated by an undue love of simplicity ; and in 
the course of the last century this disposition, after having been 
long displayed in subtile theories concerning the active powers, 
or the principles of human conduct, has been directed to similar 
refinements with respect to the faculties of the understanding, 
and the truths with which they are conversant. Mr. Hume 
himself has coincided so far with the Hartleian school, as to 
represent the " principle of union and cohesion among our simple 
ideas as a kind of attraction, of as universal application in the 
mental world as in the natural;"* and Dr. Hartley, with a still 
more sanguine imagination, looked forward to an era " when 
future generations shall put all kinds of evidences and inquiries 
into mathematical forms, reducing Aristotle's ten categories, and 
Bishop Wilkins's forty summa genera, to the head of quantity 
alone, so as to make mathematics and logic, natural history and 
civil history, natural philosophy and philosophy of all other 
kinds, coincide omni exparte."f 

It is needless to remark the obvious tendency of such prema- 
ture generalizations to withdraw the attention from the study of 
particular phenomena ; while the effect of Reid's mode of phi- 
losophizing, even in those instances where it is carried to an 
excess, is to detain us, in this preliminary step, a little longer 

* Treatise of Human Nature, vol. i. p. 30. 
f Hartley on Man, p. 207, London, 1791. 



OF THOMAS RE1D, D,D. 47 

than is absolutely necessary. The truth is, that when the phe- 
nomena are once ascertained, generalization is here of compara- 
tively little value, and a task of far less difficulty than to observe 
facts with precision, and to record them with fairness. 

In no part of Dr. Reid's writings, I am inclined to think, 
could more plausible criticisms be made on this ground, than in 
his classification of our active principles ; but even there, the 
facts are always placed fully and distinctly before the reader. 
That several of the benevolent affections which he has stated as 
ultimate facts in our constitution, might be analyzed into the 
same general principle differently modified, according to circum- 
stances, there can, in my opinion, be little doubt. This, how- 
ever, (as I have elsewhere observed,*) notwithstanding the stress 
which has been sometimes laid upon it, is chiefly a question of 
arrangement. Whether we suppose these affections to be all 
ultimate facts, or some of them to be resolvable into other facts 
more general ; they are equally to be regarded as constituent 
parts of human nature ; and, upon either supposition, we have 
equal reason to admire the wisdom with which that nature is 
adapted to the situation in which it is placed. The laws which 
regulate the acquired perceptions of sight, are surely as much a 
part of our frame as those which regulate any of our original 
perceptions ; and, although they require, for their development, 
a certain degree of experience and observation in the individual, 
the uniformity of the result shows, that there is nothing arbi- 
trary nor accidental in their origin. In this point of view, what 
can be more philosophical, as well as beautiful, than the words 
of Mr. Ferguson, that " natural affection springs up in the soul 
of the mother, as the milk springs in her breast, to furnish nou- 
rishment to her child!" — " The effect is here to the race," as the 
same author has excellently observed, " what the vital motion 
of the heart is to the individual ; too necessary to the preserva- 
tion of nature's works, to be intrusted to the precarious will or 
intention of those most nearly concerned. "f 

The question, indeed, concerning the origin of our different 

* Outlines of Moral Philosophy, pp. 79, 80, 2nd edit. Edin. 1801. 

f Principles of Moral and Political Science, Part i. chap. i. sect. 3, " Of 
the principles of society in human nature." — The whole discussion unites, in a 
singular degree, the soundest philosophy with the most eloquent description. 



48 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

affections, leads to some curious analytical disquisitions ; but is 
of very subordinate importance to those inquiries which relate to 
their laws, and uses, and mutual references. In many ethical 
systems, however, it seems to have been considered as the most 
interesting subject of disquisition which this wonderful part of 
our frame presents. 

In Dr. Reid's " Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man," 
and in his " Inquiry into the Human Mind," I recollect little 
that can justly incur a similiar censure ; notwithstanding the ridi- 
cule which Dr. Priestley has attempted to throw on the last of 
these performances, in his " Table of Reid's Instinctive Princi- 
ples."* To examine all the articles enumerated in that table, 
would require a greater latitude of disquisition than the limits 
of this memoir allow ; and, therefore, I shall confine my observa- 
tions to a few instances, where the precipitancy of the general 
criticism seems to me to admit of little dispute. In this light I 
cannot help considering it, when applied to those dispositions or 
determinations of the mind, to which Dr. Reid has given the 
names of the "principle of credulity," and the "principle of 
veracity." How far these titles are happily chosen, is a question 
of little moment ; and on that point I am ready to make every 
concession. I contend only for what is essentially connected 
with the objection which has given rise to these remarks. 

" That any man," says Dr. Priestley, " should imagine that a 
peculiar instinctive principle was necessary to explain our giving 
credit to the relations of others, appears to me, who have been 
used to see things in a different light, very extraordinary ; and 
yet this doctrine is advanced by Dr. Reid, and adopted by Dr. 
Beattie. But really," he adds, " what the former says in favour 
of it, is hardly deserving of the slightest notice. f" 

The passage quoted by Dr. Priestley, in justification of this 
very peremptory decision, is as follows : "If credulity were the 
effect of reasoning and experience, it must grow up and gather 
strength in the same proportion as reason and experience do. 
But if it is the gift of nature, it will be the strongest in child- 
hood, and limited and restrained by experience ; and the most 
superficial view of human life shows that this last is the case, 
and not the first." 

* Examination of Reid's Inquiry, &c. London, 1774. f Ibid. p. S2. 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 49 

To m}- own judgment, this argument of Dr. Reid's, when con- 
nected with the excellent illustrations which accompany it, carries 
complete conviction ; and I am confirmed in my opinion by find- 
ing that Mr. Smith (a writer inferior to none in acuteness, and 
strongly disposed by the peculiar bent of his genius, to simplify, 
as far as possible, the philosophy of human nature,) has, in the 
latest edition of his " Theory of Moral Sentiments," acquiesced 
in this very conclusion ; urging in support of it the same reason- 
ing which Dr. Priestley affects to estimate so lightly. " There 
seems to be in young children an instinctive disposition to believe 
whatever they are told. Nature seems to have judged it neces- 
sary for their preservation that they should, for some time at 
least, put implicit confidence in those to whom the care of their 
childhood, and of the earliest and most necessary part of their 
education, is intrusted. Their credulity, accordingly, is exces- 
sive, and it requires long and much experience of the falsehood 
of mankind to reduce them to a reasonable degree of diffidence 
and distrust."* — That Mr. Smith's opinion also coincided with 
Dr. Reid's, in what he has stated concerning the " principle of 
veracity," appears evidently from the remarks which immediately 
follow the passage just quoted. — But I must not add to the length 
of this memoir by unnecessary citations. 

Another instinctive principle mentioned by Reid is, "our 
belief of the continuance of the present course of nature." — 
" All our knowledge of nature," he observes, " beyond our ori- 
ginal perceptions, is got by experience, and consists in the inter- 
pretation of natural signs. The appearance of the sign is fol- 
lowed by the belief of the thing signified. Upon this principle 
of our constitution, not only acquired perception, but also in- 
ductive reasoning, and all reasoning from analogy, is grounded ; 
and, therefore, for want of a better name, we shall beg leave to 
call it the " inductive principle." • It is from the force of this prin- 
ciple that we immediately assent to that axiom, upon which all 
our knowledge of nature is built, that effects of the same kind 
must have the same cause. Take away the light of this induc- 
tive principle, and experience is as blind as a mole. She may, 
indeed, feel what is present, and what immediately touches her, 

* Smith's " Theory," last edit. Part VII. sect. 4. 
E 



50 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

but she sees nothing that is either before or behind, upon the 
right hand or upon the left, future or past." 

On this doctrine, likewise, the same critic has expressed him- 
self with much severity ; calling it " a mere quibble ;" and add- 
ing, " Every step that I take among this writer's sophisms, raises 
my astonishment higher than before." In this, however, as in 
many other instances, he has been led to censure Dr. Reid, not 
because he was able to see farther than his antagonist, but be- 
cause he did not see quite so far. Turgot, in an article inserted 
in the French " Encyclopedic," and Condorcet, in a discourse pre- 
fixed to one of his mathematical publications,* have, both of 
them, stated the fact with a true philosophical precision ; and, 
after doing so, have deduced from it an inference, not only the 
same in substance with that of Dr. Reid, but almost expressed 
in the same form of words. 

In these references, as well as in that already made to Mr. 
Smith's " Theory," I would not be understood to lay any undue 
stress on authority in a philosophical argument. I wish only, 
by contrasting the modesty and caution resulting from habits of 
profound thought, with that theoretical intrepidity which a blind- 
ness to insuperable difficulties has a tendency to inspire, to invite 
those whose prejudices against this part of Reid's system rest 
chiefly on the great names to which they conceive it to be hos- 
tile, to re-examine it with a little more attention, before they 
pronounce finally on its merits. 

The prejudices which are apt to occur against a mode of phi- 
losophizing so mortifying to scholastic arrogance, are encouraged 
greatly by that natural disposition to refer particular facts to 
general laws, which is the foundation of all scientific arrange- 
ment ; a principle of the utmost importance to our intellectual 
constitution, but which requires the guidance of a sound and 
experienced understanding to accomplish the purposes for which 
it was destined. They are encouraged, also, in no inconsiderable 
degree, by the acknowledged success of mathematicians, in 
raising, on the basis of a few simple data, the most magnificent, 
and at the same time the most solid fabric of science, of which 



* Essai sur l'Application de l'Analyse a la Probability des Decisions rendues 
a la Pluralite des Voix. — Paris, 1 785. 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 5 \ 

human genius can boast. The absurd references which logicians 
are accustomed to make to Euclid's " Elements of Geometry," 
as a model which cannot be too studiously copied, both in phy- 
sics and in morals, have contributed, in this as in a variety of 
other instances, to mislead philosophers from the study of facts 
into the false refinements of hypothetical theory. 

On these misapplications of mathematical method to sciences 
which rest ultimately on experiment and observation, I shall 
take another opportunity of offering some strictures. At pre- 
sent, it is sufficient to remark the peculiar nature of the truths 
about which pure or abstract mathematics are conversant. As 
these truths have all a necessary connexion with each other, (all 
of them resting ultimately on those definitions or hypotheses 
which are the principles of our reasoning,) the beauty of the 
science cannot fail to increase in proportion to the simplicity of 
the data, compared with the incalculable variety of consequences 
which they involve. And to the simplifications and generaliza- 
tions of theory on such a subject, it is perhaps impossible to con- 
ceive any limit. How different is the case in those inquiries 
where our first principles are not definitions but facts ; and where 
our business is not to trace necessary connexions, but the laws 
which regulate the established order of the universe ! 

In various attempts which have been lately made, more espe- 
cially on the Continent, towards a systematical exposition of the 
elements of physics, the effects of the mistake I am now cen- 
suring are extremely remarkable. The happy use of mathema- 
tical principles exhibited in the writings of Newton and his 
followers, having rendered an extensive knowledge of them an 
indispensable preparation for the study of the mechanical philo- 
sophy, the early habits of thought acquired in the former pur- 
suit are naturally transferred to the latter. Hence the illogical 
and obscure manner in which its elementary principles have fre- 
quently been stated ; an attempt being made to deduce from the 
smallest possible number of data the whole system of truths 
which it comprehends. The analogy existing among some of 
the fundamental laws of mechanics, bestows, in the opinion of 
the multitude, an appearance of plausibility on such attempts ; 
and their obvious tendency is to withdraw the attention from 
that unity of design which it is the noblest employment of phi- 

e 2 



52 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

losophy to illustrate, by disguising it under the semblance of an 
eternal and necessary order, similar to what the mathematician 
delights to trace among the mutual relations of quantities and 
figures. 

These slight hints may serve as a reply in part to what Dr. 
Priestley has suggested with respect to the consequences likely 
to follow, if the spirit of Reid's philosophy should be introduced 
into physics.* One consequence would unquestionably be, a 
careful separation between the principles which we learn from 
experience alone, and those which are fairly resolvable by mathe- 
matical or physical reasoning, into other facts still more general ; 
and, of course, a correction of that false logic, which, while it 
throws an air of mystery over the plainest and most undeniable 
facts, levels the study of nature, in point of moral interest, with 
the investigations of the geometer or of the algebraist. 

It must not, however, be supposed, that, in the present state 
of natural philosophy, a false logic threatens the same danger- 
ous effects as in the philosophy of the mind. It may retard 
somewhat the progress of the student at his first outset ; or it 
may confound, in his apprehensions, the harmony of systema- 
tical order with the consistency and mutual dependency essential 
to a series of mathematical theorems : but the fundamental truths 
of physics are now too well established, and the checks which it 
furnishes against sophistry are too numerous and palpable to 
admit the possibility of any permanent error in our deductions. 
In the philosophy of the mind, so difficult is the acquisition of 
those habits of reflection which can alone lead to a correct know- 
ledge of the intellectual phenomena, that a faulty hypothesis, if 
skilfully fortified by the imposing, though illusory strength of 
arbitrary definitions and a systematical phraseology, may main- 
tain its ground for a succession of ages. 

It will not, I trust, be inferred from any thing I have here 
advanced, that I mean to offer an apology for those who, either 
in physics or morals, would presumptuously state their own 
opinions with respect to the laws of nature, as a bar against fu- 
ture attempts to simplify and generalize them still farther. To 
assert, that none of the mechanical explanations yet given of 

* Examination of Dr. Reid's Inquiry, p. 110. 



OF THOMAS E.EID, D.D. 53 

gravitation are satisfactory, and even to hint, that ingenuity 
might be more profitably employed than in the search of such a 
theory, is something different from a gratuitous assumption of 
ultimate facts in physics ; nor does it imply an obstinate deter- 
mination to resist legitimate evidence, should some fortunate 
inquirer — contrary to what seems probable at present — succeed 
where the genius of Newton has failed. If Dr. Reid has gone 
farther than this in his conclusions concerning the principles 
which he calls original or instinctive, he has departed from that 
guarded language in which he commonly expresses himself ; for 
all that it was of importance for him to conclude was, that the 
theories of his predecessors were, in these instances, exception- 
able ; and the doubts he may occasionally insinuate, concerning 
the success of future adventurers, so far from betraying any 
overweening confidence in his own understanding, are an indi- 
rect tribute to the talents of those, from whose failure he draws 
an argument against the possibility of their undertaking. 

The same eagerness to simplify and to generalize, which led 
Priestley to complain of the number of Reid's instinctive princi- 
ples, has carried some later philosophers a step farther. Accord- 
ing to them, the very word instinct is unphilosophical ; and every 
thing either in man or brute which has been hitherto referred 
to this mysterious source, may be easily accounted for by expe- 
rience or imitation. A few instances in which this doctrine 
appears to have been successfully verified, have been deemed 
sufficient to establish it without any limitation. 

In a very original work, on which I have already hazarded 
some criticisms, much ingenuity has been employed in analysing 
the wonderful efforts which the human infant is enabled to make 
for its own preservation the moment after its introduction to the 
light. Thus, it is observed, that the foetus, while still in the 
uterus, learns to perform the operation of swallowing ; and also 
learns to relieve itself, by a change of posture, from the irksome- 
ness of continued rest: and, therefore, (if we admit these pro- 
positions,) we must conclude, that some of the actions which 
infants are vulgarly supposed to perform in consequence of 
instincts coeval with birth, are only a continuation of actions to 
which they were determined at an earlier period of their being. 
The remark is ingenious, and it may, perhaps, be just ; but it 



54 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

does not prove, that instinct is an imphilosophical term ; nor 
does it render the operations of the infant less mysterious than 
they seem to be on the common supposition. How far soever 
the analysis, in such instances, may be carried, we must at last 
arrive at some phenomenon no less wonderful than that we mean 
to explain : in other words, we must still admit, as an ultimate 
fact, the existence of an original determination to a particular 
mode of action salutary or necessary to the animal ; and all we 
have accomplished is to connect the origin of this instinct with 
an earlier period in the history of the human mind. 

The same author has attempted to account, in a manner 
somewhat similar, for the different degrees in which the young 
of different animals are able, at the moment of birth, to exert 
their bodily powers. Thus, calves and chickens are able to 
walk almost immediately ; while the human infant, even in the 
most favourable situations, is six or even twelve months old 
before he can stand alone. For this, Dr. Darwin assigns two 
causes'. 1. That the young of some animals come into the 
world in a more complete state than that of others : — the colt 
and lamb (for example) enjoying, in this respect, a striking 
advantage over the puppy and the rabbit. 2. That the mode 
of walking of some animals coincides more perfectly than that 
of others, with the previous motions of the foetus in utero. The 
struggles of all animals, he observes, in the womb, must resemble 
their manner of swimming, as by this kind of motion they can 
best change their attitude in water. But the swimming of the 
calf and of the chicken resembles their ordinary movements on 
the ground, which they have thus learned in part to execute, 
while concealed from our observation ; whereas, the swimming 
of the human infant differing totally from his manner of walk- 
ing, he has no opportunity of acquiring the last of these arts till 
he is exposed to our view. — The theory is extremely plausible, 
and does honour to the author's sagacity ; but it only places in a 
new light that provident care which Nature has taken of all her 
offspring in the infancy of their existence. 

Another instance may contribute towards a more ample illus- 
tration of the same subject. A lamb, not many minutes after 
it is dropped, proceeds to search for its nourishment in that spot 
where alone it is to be found ; applying both its limbs and its 



OF THOMAS REID,D.D. 55 

eyes to their respective offices. The peasant observes the fact, 
and gives the name of instinct, or some corresponding term, to 
the unknown principle by which the animal is guided. On a 
more accurate examination of circumstances, the philosopher 
finds reason to conclude, that it is by the sense of smelling, it is 
thus directed to its object. In proof of this, among other curious 
facts, the following has been quoted. " On dissecting," says 
Gralen, " a goat great with young, I found a brisk embryon, and 
having detached it from the matrix, and snatching it away before 
it saw its dam, I brought it into a room where there were many 
vessels ; some filled with wine, others with oil, some with honey, 
others with milk, or some other liquor ; and in others there were 
grains and fruits. We first observed the young animal get upon 
its feet and walk ; then it shook itself, and afterwards scratched 
its side with one of its feet : then we saw it smelling to every 
one of those things that were set in the room ; and when it had 
smelt to them all, it drank up the milk."* Admitting this very 
beautiful story to be true, (and, for my own part, I am far from 
being disposed to question its probability,) it only enables us to 
state the fact with a little more precision, in consequence of our 
having ascertained, that it is to the sense of smelling, the in- 
stinctive determination is attached. The conclusion of the pea- 
sant is not here at variance with that of the philosopher. It 
differs only in this, that he expresses himself in those general 
terms which are suited to his ignorance of the particular process 
by which Nature in this case accomplishes her end ; and, if he 
did otherwise, he would be censurable for prejudging a question 
of which he is incompetent to form an accurate opinion. 

The application of these illustrations to some of Dr. Reid's 
conclusions concerning the instinctive principles of the human 
mind, is, I flatter myself, sufficiently manifest. They relate, 
indeed, to a subject which differs, in various respects, from that 
which has fallen under his more particular consideration ; but 
the same rules of philosophizing will be found to apply equally 
to both. 

4. The criticisms which have been made on what Dr. Reid 
has written concerning the intuitive truths which he distinguishes 

* Darwin, vol. i. pp. 195, 196. 



50 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

by the title of " Principles of Common Sense," would require a 
more ample discussion than I can now bestow on them ; — not 
that the importance of these criticisms (of such of them, at least, 
as I have happened to meet with) demands a long or elaborate 
refutation; but because the subject, according to the view I 
wish to take of it, involves some other questions of great moment 
and difficulty, relative to the foundations of human knowledge. 
Dr. Priestley, the most formidable of Dr. Reid's antagonists, 
has granted as much in favour of this doctrine as it is worth 
while to contend for, on the present occasion. " Had these 
writers," he observes with respect to Dr. Reid and his followers, 
"assumed, as the elements of their common sense, certain 
truths which are so plain that no man could doubt of them, 
(without entering into the ground of our assent to them,) their 
conduct would have been liable to very little objection. All 
that could have been said would have been, that, without any 
necessity, they had made an innovation in the received use of a 
term. For no person ever denied, that there are self-evident 
truths, and that these must be assumed as the foundation of all 
our reasoning. I never met with any person who did not ac- 
knowledge this, or heard of any argumentative treatise that did 
not go upon the supposition of it."* After such an acknow- 
ledgment, it is impossible to forbear asking (with Dr. Campbell), 
" What is the great point which Dr. Priestley would controvert ? 
Is it, whether such self-evident truths shall be denominated 
principles of common sense, or be distinguished by some other 
appellation ?"f 

* Examination of Dr. Reid's Inquiry, &c. p. 119. 

f The following strictures on Dr. Priestley's "Examination," &c. are copied 
from a very judicious note in Dr. Campbell's " Philosophy of Rhetoric," 
vol. i. p. 111. 

" I shall only subjoin two remarks on this book. The first is, that the author, 
through tne whole, confounds two things totally distinct, — certain associations 
of ideas, and certain judgments implying belief, which, though in some, are 
not in all cases, and therefore not necessarily connected with association. And 
if so, merely to account for the association, is in no case to account for the 
belief with which it is attended. Nay, admitting his plea, (p. 80,) that by 
the principle of association, not only the ideas, but the concomitant belief may 
be accounted for, even this does not invalidate the doctrine he impugns. For, 
let it be observed, that it is one thing to assign a cause, which, from the me- 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 57 

That the doctrine in question has been, in some publications, 
presented in a very exceptionable form, I most readily allow ; 
nor would I be understood to subscribe to it implicitly, even as 
it appears in the works of Dr. Reid. It is but an act of justice 
to him, however, to request, that his opinions may be judged of 
from his own works alone, not from those of others who may 
have happened to coincide with him in certain tenets, or in cer- 
tain modes of expression ; and that, before any ridicule be 
attempted on his conclusions concerning the authority of com- 
mon sense, his antagonists would take the trouble to examine in 
what acceptation he has employed that phrase. 

The truths which Dr. Reid seems, in most instances, disposed 
to refer to the judgment of this tribunal, might, in my opinion, 
be denominated more unexceptionably, " fundamental laws of 
human belief." They have been called by a very ingenious 
foreigner, (M. Trembley of Geneva,) but certainly with a singu- 
lar infelicity of language, Ppejuges Legitimes. — Of this kind are 
the following propositions : "I am the same person to-day that 

chanism of our nature, has given rise to a particular tenet of belief, and anothor 
thing to produce a reason by which the understanding has been convinced. 
Now, unless this be done as to the principles in question, they must be consi- 
dered as primary truths in respect of the understanding, which never deduced 
them from other truths, and which is under a necessity, in all her moral rea- 
sonings, of founding upon them. In fact, to give any other account of our 
conviction of them, is to confirm, instead of confuting the doctrine, that in 
all argumentation they must be regarded as primary truths, or truths which 
reason never inferred through any medium, from other truths previously 
perceived. My second remark is, that though this examiner has, from Dr. 
Reid, given us a catalogue of first principles, which he deems unworthy of 
the honourable place assigned them, he has no where thought proper to give us 
a list of those self-evident truths, which, b,y his own account, and in his own 
express words, 'must be assumed as the foundation of all our reasoning.' 
How much light might have been thrown upon the subject by the contrast ! 
Perhaps we should have been enabled, on the comparison, to discover some 
distinctive characters in his genuine axioms, which would have preserved us 
from the danger of confounding them with their spurious ones. Nothing is 
more evident than that, in whatever regards matter of fact, the mathematical 
axioms will not answer. These are purely fitted for evolving the abstract 
relations of quantity. This he in effect owns himself (p. 39.) It would have 
been obliging, then, and would have greatly contributed to shorten the con- 
troversy, if he had given us, at least, a specimen of those self-evident principles, 
which, in his estimation, are the non plus ultra of moral reasoning." 



58 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

I was yesterday ;" " The material world has an existence inde- 
pendent of that of percipient beings ;" " There are other intelli- 
gent beings in the universe beside myself;" " The future course 
of nature will resemble the past." Such truths no man but a 
philosopher ever thinks of stating to himself in words ; but all 
our conduct and all our reasonings proceed on the supposition 
that they are admitted. The belief of them is essential for the 
preservation of our animal existence : and it is accordingly 
coeval with the first operations of the intellect. 

One of the first writers who introduced the phrase common 
sense into the technical or appropriate language of logic, was 
Father Buffier, in a book entitled, " Traite des Premieres 
Verites." It has since been adopted by several authors of note 
in this country ; particularly by Dr. Reid, Dr. Oswald, and 
Dr. Beat tie ; by all of whom, however, I am afraid, it must be 
confessed, it has been occasionally employed without a due 
attention to precision. The last of these writers uses it* to 
denote that power by which the mind perceives the truth of any 
intuitive proposition ; whether it be an axiom of abstract science ; 
or a statement of some fact resting on the immediate information 
of consciousness of perception, or of memory ; or one of those 
fundamental laws of belief which are implied in the application 
of our faculties to the ordinary business of life. The same 
extensive use of the word may, I believe, be found in the other 
authors just mentioned. But no authority can justify such a 
laxity in the employment of language in philosophical discus- 
sions ; for, if mathematical axioms be (as they are manifestly 
and indisputably) a class of propositions essentially distinct from 
the other kinds of intuitive truths now described, why refer 
them all indiscriminately to the same principle in our constitu- 
tion ? If this phrase, therefore, be at all retained, precision 
requires, that it should be employed in a more limited accepta- 
tion ; and accordingly, in the works under our consideration, it 
is appropriated most frequently, though by no means uniformly, 
to that class of intuitive truths which I have already called 
" fundamental laws of belief, "f When thus restricted, it con- 

* Essay on Truth, second edition, p. 40, ct scq. ; also p. 1GG, et seq. 
■j- This seems to be nearly the meaning annexed to the phrase, by the learned 
and acute author of " The Philosophy of Rhetoric," vol. i. p. 109, et seq. 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. £g 

veys a notion, unambiguous at least, and definite ; and, conse- 
quently, the question about its propriety or impropriety turns 
entirely on the coincidence of this definition with the meaning 
of the word as employed in ordinary discourse. Whatever 
objections, therefore, may be stated to the expression as now 
defined, will apply to it with additional force, when used with 
the latitude which has been already censured. 

I have said, that the question about the propriety of the 
phrase common sense as employed by philosophers, must be 
decided by an appeal to general practice : for, although it be 
allowable and even necessary for a philosopher to limit the 
acceptation of words which are employed vaguely in common 
discourse, it is always dangerous to give to a word a scientific 
meaning . essentially distinct from that in which it is usually 
understood. It has, at least, the effect of misleading those who 
do not enter deeply into the subject ; and of giving a paradoxical 
appearance to doctrines, which, if expressed in more unexcep- 
tionable terms, would be readily admitted. 

It appears to me, that this has actually happened in the pre- 
sent instance. The phrase common sense, as it is generally 
understood, is nearly synonymous with mother-wit; denoting 
that degree of sagacity (depending partly on original capacity, 
and partly on personal experience and observation,) which quali- 
fies an individual for those simple and essential occupations 
which all men are called on to exercise habitually by their com- 
mon nature. In this acceptation, it is opposed to those mental 
acquirements which are derived from a regular education, and 
from the study of books ; and refers, not to the speculative con- 
victions of the understanding, but to that prudence and discre- 
tion which are the foundation of successful conduct. Such is 
the idea which Pope annexes to the word, when, speaking of 
good sense, (which means only a more than ordinary share of 
common sense,) he calls it 

" the gift of Heaven, 
And though no science, fairly worth the seven." 

To speak, accordingly, of appealing from the conclusions of 
philosophy to common sense, had the appearance, to title-page 
readers, of appealing from the verdict of the learned to the voice 
of the multitude ; or of attempting to silence free discussion, by 



gO ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

a reference to some arbitrary and undefinable standard, distinct 
from any of the intellectual powers hitherto enumerated by 
logicians. Whatever countenance may be supposed to have been 
given by some writers to such an interpretation of this doctrine, 
I may venture to assert that none is afforded by the works of 
Dr, Reid. The standard to which he appeals, is neither the 
. creed of a particular sect, nor the inward light of enthusiastic 
presumption ; but that constitution of human nature without 
which all the business of the world would immediately cease ; — 
and the substance of his argument amounts merely to this, that 
those essential laws of belief to which sceptics have objected, 
when considered in connexion with our scientific reasonings, are 
implied in every step we take as active beings ; and if called in 
question by any man in his practical concerns, would expose him 
universally to the charge of insanity. 

In stating this important doctrine, it were perhaps to be wished, 
that the subject had been treated with somewhat more of analy- 
tical accuracy ; and it is certainly to be regretted, that a phrase 
should have been employed, so well calculated by its ambiguity 
to furnish a convenient handle to misrepresentations : but in the 
judgment of those who have perused Dr. Reid's writings with 
an intelligent and candid attention, these misrepresentations must 
recoil on their authors ; while they who are really interested in 
the progress of useful science, will be disposed rather to lend 
their aid in supplying what is defective in his views, than to 
reject hastily a doctrine which aims, by the development of some 
logical principles, overlooked in the absurd systems which have 
been borrowed from the schools, to vindicate the authority of 
truths intimately and extensively connected with human happi- 
ness. 

In the prosecution of my own speculations on the human 
mind, I shall have occasion to explain myself fully concerning 
this as well as various other questions connected with the foun- 
dations of philosophical evidence. The new doctrines, and new 
phraseology on that subject, which have lately become fashion- 
able among some metaphysicians in Germany, and which, in my 
opinion, have contributed not a little to involve it in additional 
obscurity, are a sufficient proof that this essential and funda- 
mental article of logic is not as yet completely exhausted. 



OF THOMAS EEID, D.D. g| 

In order to bring the foregoing remarks within some compass, 
I have found it necessary to confine myself to such objections as 
strike at the root of Dr. Reid's philosophy, without touching on 
any of his opinions on particular topics, however important. I 
have been obliged also to compress what I have stated within 
narrower limits than were, perhaps, consistent with complete 
perspicuity ; and to reject many illustrations which crowded 
upon me at almost every step of my progress. 

It may not, perhaps, be superfluous to add, that, supposing 
some of these objections to possess more force than I have as- 
cribed to them in my reply, it will not therefore follow, that 
little advantage is to be derived from a careful perusal of the 
speculations against which they are directed. Even they who 
dissent the most widely from Dr. Reid's conclusions, can scarcely 
fail to admit that, as a writer, he exhibits a striking contrast to 
the most successful of his predecessors, in a logical precision and 
simplicity of language ; his statement of facts being neither vi- 
tiated by physiological hypothesis, nor obscured by scholastic 
mystery. Whoever has reflected on the infinite importance, in 
such inquiries, of a skilful use of words as the essential instru- 
ment of thought, must be aware of the influence which his works 
are likely to have on the future progress of science, were they to 
produce no other effect than a general imitation of his mode of 
reasoning, and of his guarded phraseology. 

It is not indeed every reader to whom these inquiries are acces- 
sible ; for habits of attention in general, and still more habits of 
attention to the phenomena of thought, require early and careful 
cultivation : but those who are capable of the exertion, will soon 
recognise, in Dr. Reid's statements, the faithful history of their 
own minds, and will find their labours amply rewarded by that 
satisfaction which always accompanies the discovery of useful 
truth. They may expect, also, to be rewarded by some intel- 
lectual acquisitions not altogether useless in their other studies. 
An author well qualified to judge, from his own experience, of 
whatever conduces to invigorate or to embellish the understand- 
ing, has beautifully remarked, that, " by turning the soul in- 
ward on itself, its forces are concentred, and are fitted for stronger 
and bolder nights of science ; and that, in such pursuits, whether 
we take, or whether we lose the game, the chase is certainly of 



Q2 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

service."* In this respect, the philosophy of the mind (ab- 
stracting entirely from that pre-eminence which belongs to it in 
consequence of its practical applications) may claim a distin- 
guished rank among those preparatory disciplines which another 
writer of no less eminence has happily compared to " the crops 
which are raised, not for the sake of the harvest, but to be 
ploughed in as a dressing to the land."f 



SECTION III. 

CONCLUSION OF THE NARRATIVE. 

The three works to which the foregoing remarks refer, together 
with the " Essay on Quantity," published in the " Philosophical 
Transactions of the Royal Society of London," and a short but 
masterly " Analysis of Aristotle's Logic," which forms an appen- 
dix to the third volume of Lord Karnes's " Sketches," compre- 
hend the whole of Dr. Reid's publications. The interval between 
the dates of the first and last of these amounts to no less than 
forty years, although he had attained to the age of thirty-eight 
before he ventured to appear as an author. 

With the "Essays on the Active Powers of Man" he closed 
his literary career ; but he continued, notwithstanding, to prose- 
cute his studies with unabated ardour and activity. The more 
modern improvements in chemistry attracted his particular no- 
tice ; and he applied himself, with his wonted diligence and 
success, to the study of its new doctrines and new nomenclature. 
He amused himself, also, at times, in preparing for a philoso- 
phical society, of which he was a member, short essays on parti- 
cular topics, which happened to interest his curiosity, and on 
which he thought he might derive useful hints from friendly dis- 
cussion. The most important of these were, "An Examination 
of Priestley's Opinions concerning Matter and Mind ; " " Obser- 
vations on the Utopia of Sir Thomas More;" and "Physiolo- 
gical Reflections on Muscular Motion." This last essay appears 
to have been written in the eighty-sixth year of his age, and was 

* Preface to Mr. Burke's " Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful." 
f Bishop Berkeley's " Querist." 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. Qg 

read by the author to his associates a few months before his 
death. His " thoughts were led to the speculations it contains," 
(as he himself mentions in the conclusion,) "by the experience 
of some of the effects which old age produces on the muscular 
motions." — "As they were occasioned, therefore," he adds, " by 
the infirmities of age, they will, I hope, be heard with the greater 
indulgence." 

Among the various occupations with which he thus enlivened 
his retirement, the mathematical pursuits of his earlier years 
held a distinguished place. He delighted to converse about 
them with his friends, and often exercised his skill in the inves- 
tigation of particular problems. His knowledge of ancient geo- 
metry had not probably been, at any time, very extensive ; but 
he had cultivated diligently those parts of mathematical science 
which are subservient to the study of Sir Isaac Newton's works. 
He had a predilection, more particularly, for researches requiring 
the aid of arithmetical calculation, in the practice of which he 
possessed uncommon expertness and address. I think I have 
sometimes observed in him a slight and amiable vanity connected 
with this accomplishment. 

The revival, at this period, of Dr. Reid's first scientific pro- 
pensity, has often recalled to me a favourite remark • of Mr. 
Smith's, that of all the amusements of old age, the most grateful 
and soothing is a renewal of acquaintance with the favourite 
studies and favourite authors of our youth ; a remark which, in 
his own case, seemed to be more particularly exemplified, while 
he was re-perusing, with the enthusiasm of a student, the tragic 
poets of ancient Greece. I heard him at least repeat the obser- 
vation more than once, while Sophocles or Euripides lay open 
on his table. 

In the case of Dr. Reid, other motives perhaps conspired with 
the influence of the agreeable associations to which Mr. Smith 
probably alluded. His attention was always fixed on the state 
of his intellectual faculties ; and for counteracting the effects of 
time on these, mathematical studies seem to be fitted in a pecu- 
liar degree. They are fortunately, too, within the reach of many 
individuals, after a decay of memory disqualifies them for inqui- 
ries which involve a multiplicity of details. Such detached pro- 
blems, more especially, as Dr. Reid commonly selected for his 



(34< ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

consideration ; problems where all the data are brought at once 
under the eye, and where a connected train of thinking is not 
to be carried on from day to day, will be found, (as I have wit- 
nessed with pleasure, in several instances,) by those who are ca- 
pable of such a recreation, a valuable addition to the scanty 
resources of a life protracted beyond the ordinary limit. 

While he was thus enjoying an old age, happy in some respects 
beyond the usual lot of humanity, his domestic comfort suffered 
a deep and incurable wound by the death of Mrs. Reid. He 
had had the misfortune, too, of surviving, for many years, a nu- 
merous family of promising children ; four of whom (two sons 
and two daughters) died after they attained to maturity. One 
daughter only was left to him when he lost his wife ; and of her 
affectionate good offices he could not always avail himself, in 
consequence of the attentions which her own husband's infirm- 
ities required. Of this lady, who is still alive, (the widow of 
Patrick Carmichael, M.D.,*) I shall have occasion again to in- 
troduce the name, before I conclude this narrative. 

A short extract from a letter addressed to myself by Dr. Reid, 
not many weeks after his wife's death, will, I am persuaded, be 
acceptable to many, as an interesting relic of the writer. 

" By .the loss of my bosom-friend, with whom I lived fifty- 
two years, I am brought into a kind of new world, at a time of 
life when old habits are not easily forgot, or new ones acquired. 
But every world is God's world, and I am thankful for the com- 
forts he has left me. Mrs. Carmichael has now the care of two 
old deaf men, and does every thing in her power to please them ; 
and both are very sensible of her goodness. I have more health 
than at my time of life I had any reason to expect. I walk 
about; entertain myself with reading what I soon forget; can 
converse with one person, if he articulates distinctly, and is within 
ten inches of my left ear ; go to church, without hearing one 
word of what is said. You know, I never had any pretensions 
to vivacity, but I am still free from languor and ennui. 

* A learned and worthy physician, who, after a long residence in Holland, 
where he practised medicine, retired to Glasgow. He was a younger son of 
Professor Gerschom Carmichael, who published, about the year 1720, an edi- 
tion of Puflendorf, " Do OHicio Hominis et Civis," and who is pronounced by 
Dr Hutcheson, " by far the best commentator on that book." 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. Q$ 

" If you are weary of this detail, impute it to the anxiety you 
express to know the state of my health. I wish you may have 
no more uneasiness at my age, — being yours most affectionately." 

About four years after this event, he was prevailed on by his 
friend and relation Dr. Gregory, to pass a few weeks, during the 
summer of 1796, at Edinburgh. He was accompanied by Mrs. 
Carmichael, who lived with him in Dr. Gregory's house ; a situa- 
tion which united, under the same roof, every advantage of medi- 
cal care, of tender attachment, and of philosophical intercourse. 
As Dr. Gregory's professional engagements, however, necessarily 
interfered much with his attentions to his guest, I enjoyed more 
of Dr. Reid's society than might otherwise have fallen to my 
share. I had the pleasure, accordingly, of spending some hours 
with him daily, and of attending him in his walking excursions, 
which frequently extended to the distance of three or four miles. 
His faculties (excepting his memory, which was considerably 
impaired,) appeared as vigorous as ever ; and, although his deaf- 
ness prevented him from taking any share in general conversa- 
tion, he was still able to enjoy the company of a friend. Mr. 
Playfair and myself were both witnesses of the acuteness which 
he displayed on one occasion, in detecting a mistake, by no means 
obvious, in a manuscript of his kinsman David Gregory, on the 
subject of " Prime and Ultimate Ratios." Nor had his temper 
suffered from the hand of time, either in point of gentleness or 
of gaiety. " Instead of repining at the enjoyments of the young, 
he delighted in promoting them ; and, after all the losses he had 
sustained in his own family, he continued to treat children with 
such condescension and benignity, that some very young ones 
noticed the peculiar kindness of his eye."* In apparent sound- 
ness and activity of body, he resembled more a man of sixty than 
of eighty-seven. 

He returned to Glasgow in his usual health and spirits ; and 
continued, for some weeks, to devote, as formerly, a regular por- 
tion of his time to the exercise both of body and of mind. It 
appears, from a letter of Dr. Cleghorn's to Dr. Gregory, that he 

* I have borrowed this sentence from a just and elegant character of Dr. 
Reid, which appeared, a few days after his death, in one of the Glasgow jour- 
nals. I had occasion frequently to verify the truth of the observation during 
his last visit to Edinburgh. 

F 



g(] ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

was still able to work with his own hands in his garden ; and he 
was found by Dr. Brown occupied in the solution of an algebra- 
ical problem of considerable difficulty, in which, after the labour 
of a day or two, he at last succeeded. It was in the course of 
the same short interval that he committed to writing those parti- 
culars concerning his ancestors which I have already mentioned. 

His active and useful life was now, however, drawing to a 
conclusion. A violent disorder attacked him about the end of 
September ; but does not seem to have occasioned much alarm 
to those about him, till he was visited by Dr. Cleghorn, who 
soon after communicated his apprehensions in a letter to Dr. 
Gregory. Among other symptoms, he mentioned particularly, 
" that alteration of voice and features, which, though not easily 
described, is so well known to all who have opportunities of 
seeing life close." Dr. Reid's own opinion of his case was pro- 
bably the same with that of his physician ; as he expressed to 
him on his first visit, his hope that he was " soon to get his dis- 
mission." After a severe struggle, attended with repeated strokes 
of palsy, he died on the 7th of October following. Dr. Gregory 
had the melancholy satisfaction of visiting his venerable friend 
on his death -bed, and of paying him this unavailing mark of at- 
tachment, before his powers of recollection were entirely gone. 

The only surviving descendant of Dr. Reid is Mrs. Carmi- 
chael, a daughter worthy in every respect of such a father — 
long the chief comfort and support of his old age, and his anx- 
ious nurse in his last moments.* 

* Dr. Reid's father, the Rev. Lewis Reid, married, for his second wife, 
Janet, daughter of Mr. Fraser, of Phopachy, in the county of Inverness. A 
daughter of this marriage survived Dr. Reid ; the wife of the Rev. Alexander 
Leslie, and the mother of the Rev. James Leslie, ministers of Fordoun. To the 
latter of these gentlemen, I am indebted for the greater part of the information 
I have been able to collect with respect to Dr. Reid, previous to his removal to 
Glasgow ; Mr. Leslie's regard for the memory of his uncle having prompted 
him, not only to transmit to me such particulars as had fallen under his own 
knowledge, but some valuable letters on the same subject, which he procured 
from his relations and friends in the North. 

For all the members of this most respectable family, Dr. Reid entertained 
the strongest sentiments of affection and regard. During several years before 
his death, a daughter of Mrs. Leslie's was a constant inmate of his house, and 
added much to the happiness of his small domestic circle. 

Another daughter of Mr. Lewis Reid was married to the Rev. John Rose, 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 



67 



In point of bodily constitution, few men have been more in- 
debted to nature than Dr. Reid. His form was vigorous and 
athletic ; and his muscular force (though he was somewhat under 
the middle size) uncommonly great ; advantages to which his 
habits of temperance and exercise, and the unclouded serenity 
of his temper, did ample justice. His countenance was strongly 
expressive of deep and collected thought ; but when brightened 
up by the face of a friend, what chiefly caught the attention 
was, a look of good- will and of kindness. A picture of him, 
for which he consented, at the particular request of Dr. Gre- 
gory, to sit, to Mr. Raeburn, during his last visit to Edinburgh, 
is generally and justly ranked among the happiest performances 
of that excellent artist. The medallion of Tassie, also, for 
which he sat in the eighty-first year of his age, presents a very 
perfect resemblance. 

I have little to add to what the foregoing pages contain with 
respect to his character. Its most prominent features were, — 
intrepid and inflexible rectitude ; — a pure and devoted attach- 
ment to truth ; — and an entire command (acquired by the un- 
wearied exertions of a long life) over all his passions. Hence, 
in those parts of his writings where his subject forces him to 
dispute the conclusions of others, a scrupulous rejection of every 
expression calculated to irritate those whom he was anxious to 
convince ; and a spirit of liberality and good-humour towards 

minister of Udny. She died in 1793. In this connexion, Dr. Reid was no 
less fortunate than in the former ; and to Mr. Rose I am indebted for favours 
of the same kind with those which I have already acknowledged from Mr. 
Leslie. 

The widow of Mr. Lewis Reid died in 1798, in the eighty-seventh year of 
her age, having survived her step-son, Dr. Reid, more than a year. 

The limits within which I was obliged to confine my biographical details, 
prevented me from availing myself of many interesting circumstances which 
were communicated to me through the authentic channels which I have now 
mentioned. But I cannot omit this opportunity of returning to my different 
correspondents my warmest acknowledgments for the pleasure and instruction 
which I received from their letters. 

Mr. Jardine, also, the learned Professor of Logic in the University of Glas- 
gow, a gentleman, who, for many years, lived in habits of the most confiden- 
tial intimacy with Dr. Reid and his family, is entitled to my best thanks for his 
obliging attention to various queries, which I took the liberty to propose to him, 
concerning the history of our common friend. 

f2 



68 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

his opponents, from which no asperity on their part could pro- 
voke him, for a moment, to deviate. The progress of useful 
knowledge, more especially in what relates to human nature and 
to human life, he believed to be retarded rather than advanced 
by the intemperance of controversy ; and to be secured most 
effectually when intrusted to the slow but irresistible influence 
of sober reasoning. That the argumentative talents of the dis- 
putants might be improved by such altercations, he was willing 
to allow ; but, considered in their connexion with the great ob- 
jects which all classes of writers profess equally to have in view, 
he was convinced " that they have done more harm to the prac- 
tice, than they have done service to the theory of morality."* 

In private life, no man ever maintained, more eminently or 
more uniformly, the dignity of philosophy ; combining with the 
most amiable modesty and gentleness, the noblest spirit of inde- 
pendence. The only preferments which he ever enjoyed, he 
owed to the unsolicited favour of the two learned bodies who 
successively adopted him into their number ; and the respectable 
rank which he supported in society was the well-earned reward 
of his own academical labours. The studies in which he de- 
lighted were little calculated to draw on him the patronage of the 
great ; and he was unskilled in the art of courting advancement, 
by " fashioning his doctrines to the varying hour." 

As a philosopher, his genius was more peculiarly characterised 
by a sound, cautious, distinguishing judgment ; by a singular 
patience and perseverance of thought ; and by habits of the most 
fixed and concentrated attention to his own mental operations ; 
endowments which, although not the most splendid in the esti- 
mation of the multitude, would seem entitled, from the history 
of science, to rank among the rarest gifts of the mind. 

With these habits and powers, he united (what does not always 
accompany them) the curiosity of a naturalist, and the eye of an 
observer; and, accordingly, his information about every thing 
relating to physical science and to the useful arts, was extensive 
and accurate. His memory for historical details was not so re- 
markable ; and he used sometimes to regret the imperfect degree 
in which he possessed this faculty. I am inclined, however, to 

* Preface to Pope's " Essay on Man." 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. go, 

think, that, in doing so, he underrated his natural advantages ; 
estimating the strength of memory, as men commonly do, rather 
by the recollection of particular facts, than by the possession of 
those general conclusions, from a subserviency to which, such 
facts derive their principal value. 

Towards the close of life, indeed, his memory was much less 
vigorous than the other powers of his intellect ; in none of which 
could I ever perceive any symptom of decline. His ardour for 
knowledge, too, remained unextinguished to the last ; and, when 
cherished by the society of the young and inquisitive, seemed 
even to increase with his years. What is still more remarkable, 
he retained in extreme old age all the sympathetic tenderness, 
and all the moral sensibility of youth ; the liveliness of his emo- 
tions, wherever the happiness of others was concerned, forming 
an affecting contrast to his own unconquerable firmness under 
the severest trials. 

Nor was the sensibility which he retained, the selfish and ste- 
rile offspring of taste and indolence. It was alive and active, 
wherever he could command the means of relieving the distresses, 
or of adding to the comforts of others ; and was often felt in its 
effects where he was unseen and unknown. Among the various 
proofs of this which have happened to fall under my own know- 
ledge, I cannot help mentioning particularly (upon the most un- 
questionable authority) the secrecy with which he conveyed his 
occasional benefactions to his former parishioners at New-Machar, 
long after his establishment at Glasgow. One donation, in par- 
ticular, during the scarcity of 1782, — -a donation which, not- 
withstanding all his precautions, was distinctly traced to his 
beneficence, — might perhaps have been thought disproportionate 
to his limited income, had not his own simple and moderate 
habits multiplied the resources of his humanity. 

His opinions on the most important subjects are to be found 
in his works ; and that spirit of piety which animated every part 
of his conduct, forms the best comment on their practical ten- 
dency. In the state in which he found the philosophical world, 
he believed, that his talents could not be so usefully employed, 
as in combating the schemes of those who aimed at the complete 
subversion of religion, both natural and revealed ; convinced 
with Dr. Clarke, that " as Christianity presupposes the truth of 



70 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

natural religion, whatever tends to discredit the latter, must have 
a proportionally greater effect in weakening the authority of the 
former."* In his views of both, he seems to have coincided nearly 
with Bishop Butler, an author whom he held in the highest esti- 
mation. A very careful abstract of the treatise entitled " Ana- 
logy," drawn up by Dr. Reid, many years ago, for his own use, 
still exists among his manuscripts ; and the short " Dissertation 
on Virtue," which Butler has annexed to that work, together 
with the " Discourses on Human Nature," published in his vo- 
lume of Sermons, he used always to recommend* -as the most 
satisfactory account that has yet appeared on the fundamental 
principles of morals ; nor could he conceal his regret, that the 
profound philosophy which these discourses contain, should of 
late have been so generally supplanted in England, by the spe- 
culations of some other moralists, who, while they profess to 
idolize the memory of Locke, " approve little or nothing in his 
writings, but his errors, "f 

Deeply impressed, however, as he was with his own principles, 
he possessed the most perfect liberality towards all whom he be- 
lieved to be honestly and conscientiously devoted to the search 
of truth. With one very distinguished character, the late Lord 
Karnes, he lived in the most cordial and affectionate friendship, 
notwithstanding the avowed opposition of their sentiments on 
some moral questions, to which he attached the greatest import- 
ance. Both of them, however, were the friends of virtue and of 
mankind ; and both were able to temper the warmth of free dis- 
cussion, with the forbearance and good-humour founded on reci- 
procal esteem. No two men, certainly, ever exhibited a more 
striking contrast in their conversation, or in their constitutional 
tempers : the one, slow and cautious in his decisions, even on 
those topics which he had most diligently studied ; reserved and 
silent in promiscuous society ; and retaining, after all his literary 
eminence, the same simple and unassuming manners which he 
brought from his country residence : the other, lively, rapid, 

* Collection of papers which passed between Leibnitz and Clarke. — See 
Dr. Clarke's Dedication. 

f I have adopted here the words which Dr. Clarke applied to some of Mr. 
Locke's earlier followers. They are still more applicable to many writers of 
the present times. — See Clarke's first Reply to Leibnitz. 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 7] 

and communicative ; accustomed, by his professional pursuits, to 
wield with address the weapons of controversy, and not averse to 
a trial of his powers on questions the most foreign to his ordi- 
nary habits of inquiry. But these characteristical differences, 
while to their common friends they lent an additional charm to 
the distinguishing merits of each, served only to enliven their 
social intercourse, and to cement their mutual attachment. 

I recollect few, if any, anecdotes of Dr. Reid, which appear to 
me calculated to throw additional light on his character ; and I 
suspect strongly that many of those which are to be met with 
in biographical publications are more likely to mislead than to 
inform. A trifling incident, it is true, may sometimes paint a 
peculiar feature better than the most elaborate description ; but 
a selection of incidents really characteristical, presupposes, in the 
observer, a rare capacity to discriminate and to generalize ; and 
where this capacity is wanting, a biographer, with the most scru- 
pulous attention to the veracity of his details, may yet convey a 
very false conception of the individual he would describe. As, 
in the present instance, my subject afforded no materials for such 
a choice, I have attempted, to the best of my abilities, (instead 
of retailing detached fragments of conversations, or recording 
insulated and unmeaning occurrences,) to communicate to others 
the general impressions which Dr. Reid's character has left on 
my own mind. In this attempt I am far from being confident 
that I have succeeded ; but, how barren soever I may have thus 
rendered my pages in the estimation of those who consider bio- 
graphy merely in the light of an amusing tale, I have, at least, 
the satisfaction to think that my picture, though faint in the 
colouring, does not present a distorted resemblance of the ori- 
ginal. 

The confidential correspondence of an individual with his 
friends, affords to the student of human nature, materials of far 
greater authenticity and importance ; more particularly the cor- 
respondence of a man like Dr. Reid, who will not be suspected 
by those who knew him of accommodating his letters (as has 
been alleged of Cicero) to the humours and principles of those 
whom he addressed. I am far, at the same time, from thinking, 
that the correspondence of Dr. Reid would be generally interest- 
ing ; or even that he excelled in this species of writing ; but few 



72 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

men, I sincerely believe, who have written so much, have left 
behind them such unblemished memorials of their virtue. 

At present I shall only transcribe two letters, which I select 
from a considerable number now lying before me, as they seem 
to accord, more than the others, with the general design of this 
memoir. The first (which is dated 13 January, 1779,) is addressed 
to the Reverend William Gregory, (afterwards Rector of St. 
Andrew's, Canterbury,) then an undergraduate in Balliol College, 
Oxford. It relates to a remarkable peculiarity in Dr. Reid's 
physical temperament, connected with the subject of dreaming ; 
and is farther interesting as a genuine record of some particulars 
in his early habits, in which it is easy to perceive the openings 
of a superior mind. 

" The fact which your brother the Doctor desires to be 
informed of, was as you mention it. As far as I remember the 
circumstances, they were as follow : 

" About the age of fourteen I was, almost every night, un- 
happy in my sleep from frightful dreams. Sometimes hanging 
over a dreadful precipice, and just ready to drop down ; some- 
times pursued for my life, and stopped by a wall, or by a sudden 
loss of all strength ; sometimes ready to be devoured by a w r ild 
beast. How long I was plagued with such dreams I do not now 
recollect. I believe it was for a year or two at least ; and I think 
they had quite left me before I was fifteen. In those days I was 
much given to what Mr. Addison, in one of his ' Spectators,' 
calls Castle-building ; and in my evening solitary walk, which 
was generally all the exercise I took, my thoughts would hurry 
me into some active scene, where I generally acquitted myself 
much to my own satisfaction ; and in these scenes of imagination 
I performed many a gallant exploit. At the same time, in my 
dreams I found myself the most arrant coward that ever was. 
Not only my courage, but my strength, failed me in every dan- 
ger ; and I often rose from my bed in the morning, in such a 
panic, that it took some time to get the better of it. I wished 
very much to get free of these uneasy dreams, which not only 
made me unhappy in sleep, but often left a disagreeable impres- 
sion in my mind for some part of the following day. I thought 
it was worth trying whether it was possible to recollect that it 
was all a dream, and that I was in no real danger. I often went 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 7g 

to sleep with my mind as strongly impressed as I could with this 
thought, that I never in my lifetime was in any real danger, and 
that every fright I had was a dream. After many fruitless en- 
deavours to recollect this when the danger appeared, I effected 
it at. last, and have often, when I was sliding over a precipice 
into the abyss, recollected that it was all a dream, and boldly 
jumped down. The effect of this commonly was, that I imme- 
diately awoke. But I awoke calm and intrepid, which I thought 
a great acquisition. After this, my dreams were never very 
uneasy ; and in a short time I dreamed not at all. 

"During all this time I was in perfect health; but whether 
my ceasing to dream was the effect of the recollection above men- 
tioned, or of any change in the habit of my body, which is usual 
about that period of life, I cannot tell. I think it may more 
probably be imputed to the last. However, the fact was, that 
for at least forty years after, I dreamed none, to the best of my 
remembrance : and finding, from the testimony of others, that 
this is somewhat uncommon, I have often, as soon as I awoke, 
endeavoured to recollect, without being able to recollect, any 
thing that passed in my sleep. For some years past I can some- 
times recollect some kind of dreaming thoughts, but so incohe- 
rent that I can make nothing of them. 

" The only distinct dream I ever had since I was about sixteen, 
as far as I remember, was about two years ago. I had got my 
head blistered for a fall. A plaster which was put upon it after 
the blister, pained me excessively for a whole night. In the 
morning I slept a little, and dreamed very distinctly that I had 
fallen into the hands of a party of Indians, and was scalped. 

" I am apt to think, that as there is a state of sleep, and a 
state wherein we are awake, so there is an intermediate state, 
which partakes of the other two. If a man peremptorily resolves 
to rise at an early hour for some interesting purpose, he will of 
himself awake at that hour. A sick-nurse gets the habit of 
sleeping in such a manner that she hears the least whisper of the 
sick person, and yet is refreshed by this kind of half sleep. The 
same is the case of a nurse who sleeps with a child in her arms. 
I have slept on horseback, but so as to preserve my balance ; and 
if the horse stumbled, I could make the exertion necessary for 
saving me from a fall, as if I was awake. 



74 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS 

" I hope the sciences at your good university are not in this 
state. Yet, from so many learned men, so much at their ease, 
one would expect something more than we hear of." 

For the other letter, I am indebted to one of Dr. Reid's most 
intimate friends, to whom it was addressed, in the year 1784, on 
occasion of the melancholy event to which it alludes. 

u I sympathize with you very sincerely in the loss of a most 
amiable wife. I judge of your feelings by the impression she 
made upon my own heart, on a very short acquaintance. But 
I all the blessings of this world are transient and uncertain ; and 
it would be but a melancholy scene if there were no prospect of 
another. • 

" I have often had occasion to admire the resignation and for- 
titude of young persons, even of the weaker sex, in the views of 
death, when their imagination is filled with all the gay prospects 
which the world presents at that period. I have been witness to 
instances of this kind, which I thought truly heroic, and I hear 
Mrs. Gregory gave a remarkable one. 

" To see the soul increase in vigour and wisdom, and in every 
amiable quality, when health and strength and animal spirits 
decay ; when it is to be torn by violence from all that filled the 
imagination, and flattered hope, is a spectacle truly grand and 
instructive to the surviving. To think that the soul perishes in 
that fatal moment, when it is purified by this fiery trial, and 
fitted for the noblest exertions in another state, is an opinion 
which I cannot help looking down upon with contempt and 
disdain. 

" In old people there is no more merit in leaving this world 
with perfect acquiescence than in rising from a feast after one is 
full. When I have before me the prospect of the infirmities, the 
distresses, and the peevishness of old age, and when I have 
already received more than my share of the good things of this 
life, it would be ridiculous indeed to be anxious about prolong- 
ing it ; but when I was four-and-twenty, to have had no anxiety 
for its continuance, would, I think, have required a noble effort. 
Such efforts, in those that are called to make them, surely shall 
not lose their reward." 

$fc W yfc "Sjr %> 

I have now finished all that the limits of my plan permit me 



OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 



75 



to offer here, as a tribute to the memory of this excellent person. 
In the details which I have stated, both with respect to his pri- 
vate life and his scientific pursuits, I have dwelt chiefly on such 
circumstances as appeared to me most likely to interest the 
readers of his works, by illustrating his character as a man, and 
his views as an author. Of his merits as an instructor of youth, 
I have said but little ; partly from a wish to avoid unnecessary 
diffuseness ; but chiefly from my anxiety to enlarge on those 
still more important labours, of which he has bequeathed the 
fruits to future ages. And yet, had he left no such monument 
to perpetuate his name, the fidelity and zeal with which he dis- 
charged, during so long a period, the obscure but momentous 
duties of his official station, would, in the judgment of the wise 
and good, have ranked him in the first order of useful citizens. — 
" Nee enim is solus reipublicse prodest, qui candidatos extrahit, 
et tuetur reos, et de pace belloque censet ; sed qui juventutem 
exhortatur ; qui, in tanta bonorum prseceptorum inopia, virtute 
instruit animos ; qui, ad pecuniam luxuriamque cursu ruentes 
prensat ac retrahit, et, si nihil aliud, certe moratur : in privato, 
publicum negotium agit," Seneca, De Tranquill. An. cap. 3. — ■ 
" For neither is he alone of service to the republic who induces 
candidates to come forward, and defends the accused, and gives 
his opinion concerning peace and war ; but he who admonishes 
the young ; who in such a dearth of good precepts disciplines 
their minds with virtuous precepts ; who checks and draws back 
those eagerly rushing to money and dissipation, and retards them, 
if nothing more ; who in a private station forwards the public 



In concluding this memoir, I trust I shall be pardoned, if, for 
once, I give way to a personal feeling, while I express the satis- 
faction with which I now close finally, my attempts as a biogra- 
pher. Those which I have already made, were imposed on me 
by the irresistible calls of duty and attachment ; and, feeble as 
they are, when compared with the magnitude of subjects so 
splendid and so various, they have encroached deeply on that 
small portion of literary leisure which indispensable engagements 
allow me to command. I cannot, at the same time, be insensi- 
ble to the gratification of having endeavoured to associate in 
some degree, my name with three of the greatest which have 



76 ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THOMAS REID, D.D. 

adorned this age ; — happy, if without deviating intentionally 
from truth, I may have succeeded, however imperfectly, in my 
wish, to gratify, at once, the curiosity of the public, and to soothe 

the recollections of surviving friends. But I, too, have designs 

and enterprises of my own ; and the execution of these (which 
alas ! swell in magnitude, as the time for their accomplishment 
hastens to a period,) claims at length, an undivided attention. 
Yet I should not look back on the past with regret, if I could 
indulge the hope, that the facts which it has been my province 
to record, — by displaying those fair rewards of extensive useful- 
ness, and of permanent fame, which talents and industry, when 
worthily directed, cannot fail to secure, — may contribute, in one 
single instance, to foster the proud and virtuous independence 
of genius ; or, amidst the gloom of poverty and solitude, to gild 
the distant prospect of the unfriended scholar, whose laurels are 
now slowly ripening in the unnoticed privacy of humble life. 



ESSAYS 



ACTIVE POWERS OF THE HUMAN MIND. 



INTRODUCTION. 

The division of the faculties of the human mind into Under- 
standing and Will is very ancient, and has been very generally 
adopted ; the former comprehending all our speculative, the 
latter all our active powers. 

It is evidently the intention of our Maker, that man should 
be an active and not merely a speculative being. For this pur- 
pose, certain active powers have been given him, limited indeed 
in many respects, but suited to his rank and place in the crea- 
tion. 

Our business is to manage these powers, by proposing to our- 
selves the best ends, planning the most proper system of conduct 
that is in our power, and executing it with industry and zeal. 
This is true wisdom ; this is the very intention of our being. 

Every thing virtuous and praiseworthy must lie in the right 
use of our power; every thing vicious and blameable in the 
abuse of it. What is not within the sphere of our power can- 
not be imputed to us either for blame or praise. These are 
self-evident truths, to which every unprejudiced mind yields an 
immediate and invincible assent. 

Knowledge derives its value from this, that it enlarges our 
power, and directs us in the application of it. For in the right 
employment of our active power consists all the honour, dignity, 
and worth of a man, and, in the abuse and perversion of it, all 
the vice, corruption, and depravity. 

We are distinguished from the brute animals, not less by our 
active than by our speculative powers. 



78 INTRODUCTION. 

The brutes are stimulated to various actions by their instincts, 
by their appetites, by their passions. But they seem to be 
necessarily determined by the strongest impulse, without any 
capacity of self-government. Therefore we do not blame them 
for what they do ; nor have we any reason to think that they 
blame themselves. They may be trained up by discipline, but 
cannot be governed by law. There is no evidence that they 
have the conception of a law, or of its obligation. 

Man is capable of acting from motives of a higher nature. He 
perceives a dignity and worth in one course of conduct, a demerit 
and turpitude in another, which brutes have not the capacity to 
discern. 

He perceives it to be his duty to act the worthy and the 
honourable part, whether his appetites and passions incite him 
to it, or to the contrary. When he sacrifices the gratification of 
the strongest appetites or passions to duty, this is so far from 
diminishing the merit of his conduct, that it greatly increases it, 
and affords upon reflection, an inward satisfaction and triumph, 
of which brute animals are not susceptible. When he acts a 
contrary part, he has a consciousness of demerit, to which they 
are no less strangers. 

Since, therefore, the active powers of man make so important 
a part of 'his constitution, and distinguish him so eminently from 
his fellow-animals, they deserve no less to be the subject of phi- 
losophical disquisition than his intellectual powers. 

A just knowledge of our powers, whether intellectual or active, 
is so far of real importance to us, as it aids us in the exercise of 
them. And every man must acknowledge, that to act properly 
is much more valuable than to think justly or reason acutely. 



ESSAY I. 

OF ACTIVE POWER IN GENERAL. 

CHAPTEK I. 

OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. 

I. An explanation of the meaning of {t active power" neces- 
sary. — To consider gravely what is meant by active power, may 
seem altogether unnecessary, and to be mere trifling. It is not 
a term of art, but a common word in our language, used every 
day in discourse, even by the vulgar. We find words of the 
same meaning in all other languages ; and there is no reason to 
think that it is not perfectly understood by all men who under- 
stand the English language. 

I believe all this is true, and that an attempt to explain a 
word so well understood, and to show that it has a meaning, 
requires an apology. 

[The apology is, that this term, so well understood by the vul- 
gar, has been darkened by philosophers, who, in this, as in many 
other instances, have found great difficulties about a thing which, 
to the rest of mankind, seems perfectly clear.] 

This has been the more easily effected, because power is a 
thing so much of its own kind, and so simple in its nature, as 
not to admit of a logical definition. 

It is well known, that there are many things perfectly under- 
stood, and of which we have clear and distinct conceptions, 
which cannot be logically defined. No man ever attempted to 
define magnitude ; yet there is no word whose meaning is more 
distinctly or more generally understood. We cannot give a logi- 
cal definition of thought, of duration, of number, or of motion. 

When men attempt to define such things, they give no light. 
They may give a synonymous word or phrase, but it will pro- 
bably be a worse for a better. If they will define, the definition 
will either be grounded upon a hypothesis, or it will darken the 
subject rather than throw light upon it. 

II. The Aristotelian definition of motion, that it is " actus 
entis in potentia, quatenus in potentia," has been justly censured 
by modern philosophers ; yet I think it is matched by what a 



80 ESSAY I. CHAP. I. 

celebrated modern philosopher has given us, as the most accu- 
rate definition of belief, to wit, " that it is a lively idea related 
to or associated with a present impression." (Treatise of Hu- 
man Nature, Vol. I. p. 172.) "Memory," according to the 
same philosopher, " is the faculty by which we repeat our im- 
pressions, so as that they retain a considerable degree of their 
first vivacity, and are somewhat intermediate betwixt an idea 
and an impression." 

Euclid, if his editors have not done him injustice, has at- 
tempted to define a right line, to define unity, ratio, and num- 
ber. But these definitions are good for nothing.. We may, 
indeed, suspect them not to be Euclid's, because they are never 
once quoted in the " Elements," and are of no use. 

I shall not, therefore, attempt to define active power, that I 
may not be liable to the same censure ; but shall offer some ob- 
servations that may lead us to attend to the conception we have 
of it in our own minds. 

TIL Of our conception of active power. — 1. Power is not an 
object of any of our external senses, nor even an object of con- 
sciousness. 

That it is not seen, nor heard, nor touched, nor tasted, nor 
smelt, needs no proof. That we are not conscious of it, in the 
proper sense of that word, will be no less evident, if we reflect, 
that consciousness is that power of the mind by which it has an 
immediate knowledge of its own operations. Power is not an 
operation of the mind, and therefore no object of consciousness. 
Indeed, every operation of the mind is the exertion of some 
power of the mind ; but we are conscious of the operation only, 
the power lies behind the scene ; and though we may justly infer 
the power from the operation, it must be remembered, that in- 
ferring is not the province of consciousness, but of reason. 

I acknowledge, therefore, that our having any conception or 
idea of power is repugnant to Mr. Locke's theory, that all our 
simple ideas are got either by the external senses, or by con- 
sciousness. Both cannot be true. Mr. Hume perceived this 
repugnancy, and consistently maintained, that we have no idea 
of power. Mr. Locke did not perceive it. If he had, it might 
have led him to suspect his theory ; for when theory is repug- 
nant to fact, it is easy to see which ought to yield. I am con- 
scious that I have a conception or idea of power, but, strictly 
fpeaking, I am not conscious that I have power. ' 

IV. Power not an object of consciousness. — I shall have occa- 
sion to show, that we have very early, from our constitution, a 
conviction or belief of some degree of active power in ourselves. 
This belief, however, is not consciousness : for we may be de- 
ceived in it ; but the testimony of consciousness can never de- 
ceive. Thus, a man who is struck with a palsy in the night, 



OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. g| 

commonly knows not that he has lost the power of speech till he 
attempts to speak ; he knows not whether he can move his hands 
and arms till he makes the trial ; and if, without making trial, 
he consults his consciousness ever so attentively, it will give him 
no information whether he has lost these powers, or still retains 
them. 

From this we must conclude, that the powers we have are not 
an object of consciousness, though it would be foolish to censure 
this way of speaking in popular discourse, which requires not 
accurate attention to the different provinces of our various facul- 
ties. The testimony of consciousness is always unerring, nor was 
it ever called in question by the greatest sceptics, ancient or 
modern. 

But a relative conception. — [2, A second observation is, that 
as there are some things of which we have a direct, and others 
of which we have only a relative conception, power belongs to 
the latter class.] 

As this distinction is overlooked by most writers in logic, I 
shall beg leave to illustrate it a little, and then shall apply it to 
the present subject. 

Of some things, -we know what they are in themselves ; our 
conception of such things I call direct. Of other things, we 
know not what they are in themselves, but only that they have 
certain properties or attributes, or certain relations to other 
things ; of these our conception is only relative. 

giF To illustrate this by some examples : in the university- 
library, J call for the book, press L, shelf 10, No. 10 ; the library- 
keeper must have such a conception of the book I want, as to be 
able to distinguish it from ten thousand that are under his care. 
But what conception does he form of it from my words ? They 
inform him neither of the author, nor the subject, nor the lan- 
guage, nor the size, nor the binding, but only of its mark and 
place. His conception of it is merely relative to these circum- 
stances ; yet this relative notion enables him to distinguish it 
from every other book in the library. 

There are other relative notions that are not taken from acci- 
dental relations, as in the example just now mentioned, but from 
qualities or attributes essential to the thing. 

|gg° Of this kind are our notions both of body and mind. 
What is body ? It is, say philosophers, that which is extended, 
solid, and divisible. Says the querist, I do not ask what the pro- 
perties of body are, but what is the thing itself? let me first 
know directly what body is, and then consider its properties. 
To this demand I am afraid the querist will meet with no satis- 
factory answer ; because our notion of body is not direct, but 
relative to its qualities. We know that it is something extended, 
solid, and divisible, and we know no more. 

G 



82 ESSAY I. CHAP. I. 

iSF Again, if it should be asked, What is mind ? It is that 
which thinks. I ask not what it does, or what its operations are, 
but what it is ? To this I can find no answer ; our notion of 
mind being not direct, but relative to its operations, as our notion 
of body is relative to its qualities. 

iSF There are even many of the qualities of body, of which 
we have only a relative conception. What is heat in a body ? 
It is a quality which affects the sense of touch in a certain way. 
If you want to know, not how it affects the sense of touch, but 
what it is in itself; this I confess I know not. My conception 
of it is not direct, but relative to the effect it has upon bodies. 
The notions we have of all those qualities which Mr. Locke calls 
secondary, and of those he calls powers of bodies, such as the 
power of the magnet to attract iron, or of fire to burn wood, are 
relative. 

V. Having given examples of things of which our conception 
is only relative, it may be proper to mention some of which it is 
direct. Of this kind, are (1) all the primary qualities of body; 
figure, extension, solidity, hardness, fluidity, and the like. Of 
these we have a direct and immediate knowledge from our senses. 
To this class belong also (2) all the operations of mind of which 
we are conscious. I know what thought is, what memory, what 
a purpose, what a promise. 

VI. There are some things of which we can have both a direct 
and a relative conception. I can directly conceive ten thousand 
men or ten thousand pounds, because both are objects of sense, 
and maybe seen. But whether I see such an object, or directly 
conceive it, my notion of it is indistinct ; it is only that of a 
great multitude of men, or of a great heap of money ; and a 
small addition or diminution makes no perceptible change in the 
notion I form in this way. |g§F But I can form a relative notion 
'of the same number of men or of pounds, by attending to the 
relations which this number has to other numbers, greater or 
less. Then I perceive that the relative notion is distinct and 
scientific. For the addition of a single man, or a single pound, 
or even of a penny, is easily perceived. 

g§F In like manner, I can form a direct notion of a polygon of 
a thousand equal sides and equal angles. This direct notion 
cannot be more distinct, when conceived in the mind, than that 
which I get by sight, when the object is before me ; and I find 
it so indistinct, that it has the same appearance to my eye, or to 
my direct conception, as a polygon of a thousand and one, or of 
nine hundred and ninety-nine sides. But when I form a relative 
conception of it, by attending to the relation it bears to poly- 
gons of a greater or less number of sides, my notion of it be- 
comes distinct and scientific, and I can demonstrate the properties 
by which it is distinguished from all other polygons. From 



OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. 33 

these instances it appears, that our relative conceptions of things 
are not always less distinct, nor less fit materials for accurate 
reasoning, than those that are direct ; and that the contrary may 
happen in a remarkable degree. ■ 

VII. Our conception of power is relative to its exertions or 
effects. — Power is one thing; its exertion is another thing. It is 
true, there can be no exertion without power ; but there may be 
power that is not exerted. Thus a man may have power to 
speak when he is silent ; he may have power to rise and walk 
when he sits still. 

But, though it be one thing to speak, and another to have the 
power of speaking, I apprehend we conceive of the power as 
something which has a certain relation to the effect. And of 
every power we form our notion by the effect which it is able 
to produce. 

3. It is evident that power is a quality, and cannot exist with- 
out a subject to which it belongs. 1 

That power may exist without any being or subject to which 
that power may be attributed, is an absurdity, shocking to every 
man of common understanding. 

It is a quality which may be varied, not only in degree, but 
also in kind ; and we distinguish both the kinds and degrees by 
the effects which they are able to produce. 

Thus a power to fly, and a power to reason, are different 
kinds of power, their effects being different in kind. . But a 
power to carry one hundred weight, and a power to carry two 
hundred, are different degrees of the same kind. 

4. We cannot conclude the want of power from its not being 
exerted ; nor from the exertion of a less degree of power, can 
we conclude that there is no greater degree'in the subject. Thus, 
though a man on a particular occasion said nothing, we cannot 
conclude from that circumstance, that he had not the power of 
speech ; nor from a man's carrying ten pound weight, can we 
conclude that he had not power to carry twenty. 

5. There are some qualities that have a contrary, others that 
have not ; power is a quality of the latter kind. 

Vice is contrary to virtue, misery to happiness, hatred to love, 
negation to affirmation ; but there is no contrary to power. 
Weakness or impotence are defects or privations of power, but 
not contraries to it. 

If what has been said of power be easily understood, and 
readily assented to, by all who understand our language, as I 
believe it is, we may from this justly conclude, that we have a 
distinct notion of power, and may reason about it with under- 
standing, though we can give no logical definition of it. 

VIII. Our idea of power. — If power were a thing of which 
we have no idea, as some philosophers have taken much pains 



S4 ESSAY I. CHAP. I. 

to prove, that is, if power were a word without any meaning, 
we could neither affirm nor deny any thing concerning it with 
understanding. We should have equal reason to say that it is a 
substance, as that it is a quality ; that it does not admit of degrees, 
as that it does. If the understanding immediately assents to 
one of these assertions, and revolts from the contrary, we may 
conclude with certainty, that we put some meaning upon the 
word power, that is, that we have some idea of it. And it is 
chiefly for the sake of this conclusion, that I have enumerated 
so many obvious things concerning it. 

IX. The term active power is used, I conceive, to distinguish 
it from speculative powers. As all languages distinguish action 
from speculation, the same distinction is applied to the powers 
by which they are produced. The powers of seeing, hearing, 
remembering, distinguishing, judging, reasoning, are speculative 
powers ; the power of executing any work of art or labour is 
active power. 

There are many things related to power, in such a manner, 
that we can have no notion of them if we have none of power. 

The exertion of active power we call action ; and as every 
action produces some change, so every change must be caused 
by some exertion, or by the cessation of some exertion of power. 
That which produces a change by the exertion of its power, we 
call the cause of that change ; and the change produced, the 
effect of that cause. 

When one being, by its active power, produces any change 
upon another, the last is said to be passive, or to be acted upon. 
Thus we see, that action and passion, cause and effect, exertion 
and operation, have such a relation to active power, that if it be 
understood, they are understood of consequence ; but if power 
be a word without any meaning, all those words which are re- 
lated to it, must be words without any meaning. They are, 
however, common words in our language ; and equivalent words 
have always been common in all languages. 

It would be very strange indeed, if mankind had always used 
these words so familiarly, without perceiving that they had no 
meaning; and that this discovery should have been first made 
by a philosopher of the present age. 

With equal reason it might be maintained, that though there 
are words in all languages to express sight, and words to signify 
the various colours which are objects of sight ; yet that all man- 
kind, from the beginning of the world, had been blind, and never 
had an idea of sight or of colour. But there are no absurdities 
so gross as those which philosophers have advanced concerning 
ideas. 



85 



CHAPTEE II. 

THE SAME SUBJECT. 

I. Distinction of " action and passion" coeval with the origin 
of languages. — [There are, I believe, no abstract notions, that 
are to be found more early, or more universally , in the minds 
of men, than those of acting, and being acted upon.] Every child 
that understands the distinction between striking and being struck, 
must have the conception of action and passion. 

We find, accordingly, that there is no language so imperfect, 
but that it has active and passive verbs, and participles ; the one 
signifying some kind of action ; the other, the being acted upon. 
This distinction enters into the original contexture of all lan- 
guages. 

Active verbs have a form and construction proper to them- 
selves ; passive verbs a different form and a different construction. 
In all languages, the nominative to an active verb is the agent ; 
the thing acted upon is put in an oblique case. In passive verbs, 
the thing acted upon is the nominative, and the agent, if ex- 
pressed, must be in an oblique case ; as in this example : Raphael 
drew the Cartoons; the Cartoons were drawn by Raphael, 

Every distinction which we find in the structure of all lan- 
guages, must have been familiar to those who framed the lan- 
guages at first, and to all who speak them with understanding. 

II. Objection. — [It may be objected to this argument, taken 
from the structure of language, in the use of active and passive 
verbs, (1) that active verbs are not always used to denote an 
action ; (2) nor is the nominative before an active verb conceived 
in all cases to be an agent, in the strict sense of that word ; (3) 
that there are many passive verbs which have an active significa- 
tion, and active verbs which have a passive.] From these facts, 
it may be thought a just conclusion, that in contriving the differ- 
ent forms of active and passive verbs, and their different con- 
struction, men have not been governed by a regard to any dis- 
tinction between action and passion, but by chance, or some 
accidental cause. 

III. In answer to this objection, the fact on which it is founded 
must be admitted ; but I think the conclusion not justly drawn 
from it, for the following reasons : 

[1. It seems contrary to reason, to attribute to chance or 
accident, what is subject to rules, even though there may be 
exceptions to the rule.] The exceptions may, in such a case, be 
attributed to accident, but the rule cannot. There is perhaps 
hardly anything in language so general, as not to admit of excep- 



86 ESSAY I. CHAP. II. 

tions. It cannot be denied to be a general rule, that verbs and 
participles have an active and a passive voice ; and as this is a 
general rule, not in one language only, but in all the languages 
we are acquainted with, it shows evidently that men, in the 
earliest stages, and in all periods of society, have distinguished 
action from passion. 

[2. It is to be observed, that the forms of language are often 
applied to purposes different from those for which they were ori- 
ginally intended. The varieties of a language, even the most 
perfect, can never be made equal to all the variety of human 
conceptions.] The forms and modifications of language must be 
confined within certain limits, that they may not exceed the 
capacity of human memory. Therefore, in all languages, there 
must be a kind of frugality used, to make one form of expression 
serve many different purposes, like Sir Hudibras' dagger, which, 
though made to stab or break a head, was put to many other 
uses. Many examples might be produced of this frugality in 
language. Thus the Latins and Greeks had five or six cases of 
nouns, to express all the various relations that one thing could 
bear to another. The genitive case must have been at first 
intended to express some one capital relation, such as that of 
possession or of property : but it would be very difficult to 
enumerate all the relations which, in the progress of language, 
it was used to express. The same observation may be applied 
to other cases of nouns. 

The slightest similitude or analogy is thought sufficient to 
justify the extension of a form of speech beyond its proper 
meaning, whenever the language does not afford a more proper 
form. In the moods of verbs, a few of those which occur most 
frequently are distinguished by different forms, and these are 
made to supply all the forms that are wanting. The same obser- 
vation may be applied to what is called the voices of verbs. An 
active and a passive are the capital ones ; some languages have 
more, but no language so many as to answer to all the variations 
of human thought. We cannot always coin new ones, and 
therefore must use some one or other of those that are to be 
found in the language, though at first intended for another pur- 
pose. 

[3. A third observation in answer to the objection is, That 
we can point out a cause of the frequent misapplication of active 
verbs, to things which have no proper activity :] a cause which 
extends to the greater part of such misapplications, and which 
confirms the account I have given of the proper intention of 
active and passive verbs. 

As there is no principle that appears to be more universally 
acknowledged by mankind, from the first dawn of reason, than, 
that every change we observe in nature must have a cause ; so 



OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. g7 

this is no sooner perceived, than there arises in the human mind 
a strong desire to know the causes of those changes that fall 
within our observation. " Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere 
causas," is the voice of nature in all men. Nor is there any 
thing that more early distinguishes the rational from the brute 
creation, than this avidity to know the causes of things, of which 
I see no sign in brute animals. 

IV. It must surely be admitted, that in those periods wherein 
languages are formed, men are but poorly furnished for carrying 
on this investigation with success. We see, that the experience 
of thousands of years is necessary to bring men into the right 
track in this investigation, if indeed they can yet be said to be 
brought into it. What innumerable errors rude ages must fall 
into, with regard to causes, from impatience to judge, and 
inability to judge right, we may conjecture from reason, and 
may see from experience ; from which I think it is evident, 
that supposing active verbs to have been originally intended to 
express what is properly called action, and their nominatives to 
express the agent ; yet, in the rude and barbarous state wherein 
languages are formed, there must be innumerable misapplica- 
tions of such verbs and nominatives, and many things spoken of 
as active, which have no real activity. 

To this we may add, [that it is a general prejudice of our 
early years, and of rude nations, when we perceive any thing to 
be changed, and do not perceive any other thing which we can 
believe to be the cause of that change, to impute it to the thing 
itself, and conceive it to be active and animated, so far as to have 
the power of producing that change in itself.] ggp Hence to a 
child, or to a savage, all nature seems to be animated; the sea, 
the earth, the air, the sun, moon, and stars, rivers, fountains, 
and groves, are conceived to be active and animated beings. As 
this is a sentiment natural to man in his rude state, it has, on 
that account, even in polished nations, the verisimilitude that is 
required in poetical fiction and fable, and makes personification 
one of the most agreeable figures in poetry and eloquence. 

V. The origin of this prejudice probably is, that we judge of 
other things by ourselves, and therefore axe disposed to ascribe 
to them that life and activity which we know to be in ourselves. 

iST A little girl ascribes to her doll the passions and senti- 
ments she feels in herself. Even brutes seem to have something 
of this nature. A young cat, when she sees any brisk motion in 
a feather or a straw, is prompted, by natural instinct, to hunt it 
as she would hunt a mouse. 

Whatever be the origin of this prejudice in mankind, it has 
a powerful influence upon language, and leads men, in the 
structure of language, to ascribe action to many things that are 
merely passive ; because, when such forms of speech were in- 



§3 ESSAY I. CHAP. II. 

vented, those things were really believed to be active. Thus we 
say, the wind blows, the sea rages, the sun rises and sets, bodies 
gravitate and move. 

When experience discovers that these things are altogether 
inactive, it is easy to correct our opinion about them ; but it is 
not so easy to alter the established forms of language. The most 
perfect and the most polished languages are like old furniture, 
which is never perfectly suited to the present taste, but retains 
something of the fashion of the times when it was made. 

IHSF Thus, though all men of knowledge believe that the suc- 
cession of day and night is owing to the rotation of the earth 
round its axis, and not to any diurnal motion of the heavens ; 
yet we find ourselves under a necessity of speaking in the old 
style, of the sun's rising and going down, and coming to the 
meridian. And this style is used, not only in conversing with 
the vulgar, but when men of knowledge converse with one 
another. And if we. should suppose the vulgar to be at last so 
far enlightened, as to have the same belief with the learned, of 
the cause of day and night, the same style would still be used. 

From this instance we may learn, that the language of man- 
kind may furnish good evidence of opinions which have been 
early and universally entertained, and that the forms contrived 
for expressing such opinions may remain in use after the opi- 
nions which gave rise to them have been greatly changed. 

VI. Active verbs appear plainly to have been first contrived to 
express action. — They are still in general applied to this pur- 
pose. And though we find many instances of the application of 
active verbs to things which we now believe not to be active, 
this ought to be ascribed to men's having once had the belief 
that those things are active, and perhaps, in some cases, to this, 
that forms of expression are commonly extended, in course of 
time, beyond their original intention, either from analogy, or 
because more proper forms for the purpose are not found in the 
language. 

[ (1) Even the misapplication of this notion of action and 
active power shows that there is such a notion in the human mind, 
and shows the necessity there is in philosophy of distinguishing 
the proper application of these words, from the vague and im- 
proper application of them, founded on common language, or on 
popular prejudice.] 

[ (2) Another argument to show that all men have a notion or 
idea of active power is, that there are many operations of mind 
common to all men who have reason, and necessary in the ordi- 
nary conduct of life, which imply a belief of active power in 
ourselves and in others.] 

All our volitions and efforts to act, all our deliberations, our 
purposes and promises, imply a belief of active power in our- 



OF THE NOTION OF ACTIVE POWER. g9 

selves : our counsels, exhortations, and commands, imply a belief 
of active power in those to whom they are addressed. 

U^ If a man should make an effort to fly to the moon ; if he 
should even deliberate about it, or resolve to do it, we should 
conclude him to be lunatic ; and even lunacy would not account 
for his conduct, unless it made him believe the thing to be in his 
power. 

If a man promises to pay me a sum of money to-morrow, 
without believing that it will then be in his power, he is not an 
honest man : and, if I did not believe that it will then be in his 
power, I should have no dependence on his promise. 

All our power is, without doubt, derived from the Author of 
our being, and, as he gave it freely, he may take it away when 
he will. No man can be certain of the continuance of any of 
his powers of body or mind for a moment ; and, therefore, in 
every promise there is a condition understood, to wit, if we live, 
if we retain that health of body and soundness of mind which is 
necessary to the performance, and if nothing happen, in the pro- 
vidence of God, which puts it out of our power. The rudest 
savages are taught by nature to admit these conditions in all 
promises, whether they be expressed or not; and no man is 
charged with breach of promise, when he fails through the fail- 
ure of these conditions. 

It is evident,, therefore, that, without the belief of some active 
power, no honest man would make a promise, no wise man would 
trust to a promise ; and it is no less evident, that the belief of 
active power, in ourselves, or in others, implies an idea or notion 
of active power. 

The same reasoning may be applied to every instance wherein 
we give counsel to others, wherein we persuade or command. 
As long, therefore, as mankind are beings who can deliberate, 
and resolve, and will ; as long as they can give counsel, and ex- 
hort, and command, they must believe the existence of active 
/ power in themselves, and in others, and therefore must have a 
notion or idea of active power. 

VII. [It might further be observed, that power is the proper 
and immediate object of ambition, one of the most universal pas- 
sions of the human mind, and that which makes the greatest 
figure in the history of all ages.] Whether Mr. Hume, in de- 
fence of his system, would maintain that there is no such passion 
in mankind as ambition, or that ambition is not a vehement 
desire of power, or that men may have a vehement desire of 
power, without having any idea of power, I will not pretend to 
divine. 

I cannot help repeating my apology for insisting so long in 
the refutation of so great an absurdity. It is a capital doctrine 
in a late celebrated system of human nature, that we have no 



90 ESSAY I. CHAP. II. 

idea of power, not even in the Deity ; that we are not able to 
discover a single instance of it, either in body or spirit, either in 
superior or inferior natures ; and that we deceive ourselves when 
we imagine that we are possessed of any idea of this kind. 

To support this important doctrine, and the out-works that are 
raised in its defence, a great part of the first volume of the 
" Treatise of Human Nature " is employed. That system abounds 
with conclusions the most absurd that ever were advanced by 
any philosopher, deduced with great acuteness and ingenuity 
from principles commonly received by philosophers. To reject 
such conclusions as unworthy of a hearing, would be disrespect- 
ful to the ingenious author ; and to refute them is difficult, and 
appears ridiculous. 

It is difficult, because we can hardly find principles to reason 
from, more evident than those we wish to prove ; and it appears 
ridiculous, because, as this author justly observes, next to the 
ridicule of denying an evident truth, is that of taking much 
pains to prove it. 

BUT Protestants complain, with justice, of the hardship put 
upon them by Roman Catholics, in requiring them to prove that 
bread and wine is not flesh and blood. They have, however, 
submitted to this hardship for the sake of truth. I think it is 
no less hard to be put to prove that men have an idea of power. 

[What convinces myself that I have an idea of power is, that 
I am conscious that I know what I mean by that word, and, while 
I have this consciousness, I disdain equally to hear arguments for 
or against my having such an idea.] But if we would convince 
those who, being led away by prejudice, or by authority, deny 
that they have any such idea, we must condescend to use such 
arguments as the subject will afford, and such as we should use 
with a man who should deny that mankind have any idea of mag- 
nitude or of equality. 

VIII. The arguments I have adduced are taken from these 
five topics: 1. That there are many things that we can affirm or 
deny concerning power, with understanding. 2. That there are, 
in all languages, words signifying, not only power, but signifying 
many other things that imply power, such as action and passion, 
cause and effect, energy, operation, and others. S. That in the 
structure of all languages, there is an active and passive form in 
verbs and participles, and a different construction adapted to 
these forms, of which diversity no account can be given, but that 
it has been intended to distinguish action from passion. 4. That 
there are many operations of the human mind familiar to every 
man come to the use of reason, and necessary in the ordinary 
conduct of life, which imply a conviction of some degree of 
power in ourselves and in others. 5. That the desire of power 
is one of the strongest passions of human nature. 



91 



CHAPTER III. 

OF MR. LOCKE'S ACCOUNT OF OUR IDEA OF POWER. 

1. This author, having refuted the Cartesian doctrine of in- 
nate ideas, took up, perhaps too rashly, an opinion that all our 
simple ideas are got, either by sensation or by reflection ; that 
is, by our external senses, or by consciousness of the operations 
of our own minds. 

Through the whole of his Essay, he shows a fatherly affection 
to this opinion, and often strains very hard to reduce our simple 
ideas to one of those sources, or both. Of this, several instances 
might be given, in his account of our idea of substance, of dura- 
tion, of personal identity. Omitting these, as foreign to the 
present subject, I shall only take notice of the account he gives 
of our idea of power. 

The sum of it is, that observing, by our senses, various 
changes in objects, we collect a possibility in one object to be 
changed, and in another a possibility of making that change, and 
so come by that idea which we call power. 

Thus we say the fire has a power to melt gold, and gold has 
power to be melted ; the first he calls active, the second passive 
power. 

He thinks, however, that^we have the most distinct notion of 
active power, by attending to the power which we ourselves 
exert, in giving motion to our bodies when at rest, or in directing 
our thoughts to this or the other object, as we will. And this 
way of forming the idea of power he attributes to reflection, as 
he refers the former to sensation.* 

II. Objections to Mr. Locke s origin of our idea of power. — On 
this account of the origin of our idea of power, I would beg 
leave to make two remarks, with the respect that is most justly 
due to so great a philosopher, and so good a man. 

[1. Whereas he distinguishes power into active and passive, I 
conceive passive power is no power at all. He means by it, the 
possibility of being changed. To call this power, seems to be a 
misapplication of the word. ' I do not remember to have met with 
the phrase passive power in any other good author.] Mr. Locke 
seems to have been unlucky in inventing it ; and it deserves not 
to be retained in our language. 

Perhaps he was unwarily led into it, as an opposite to active 

* " Observing in ourselves, that we do and can think ; and that we can at 
pleasure move several parts of our bodies which were at rest : the effects, also, 
that natural bodies are able to produce in one another, occurring every moment 
to our senses, we both these ways get the idea of power." — Essay, Book ii. 
chap.'vii. sect. 8. 



92 ESSAY I. CHAP. III. 

power. But I conceive we call certain powers active) to distin- 
guish them from other powers that are called speculative. As 
all mankind distinguish action from speculation, it is very proper 
to distinguish the powers by which those different operations are 
performed, into active and speculative. Mr. Locke, indeed, 
acknowledges that active power is more properly called power ; 
but I see no propriety at all in passive power ; it is a powerless 
power, and a contradiction in terms. 

'[2. I would observe, that Mr. Locke seems to have imposed 
upon himself, in attempting to reconcile this account of the idea 
of power to his favourite doctrine, that all our simple ideas are 
ideas of sensation, or of reflection.] 

There are two steps, according to his account, which the mind 
takes in forming this idea of power ; first, it observes changes 
in things ; and, secondly, from these changes, it infers a cause of 
them, and a power to produce them. 

If both these steps are operations of the external senses, or of 
consciousness, then the idea of power may be called an idea of 
sensation, or of reflection. But, if either of those steps requires 
the co-operation of other powers of the mind, it will follow, that 
the idea of power cannot be got by sensation, nor by reflection, 
nor by both together. Let us, therefore, consider each of these 
steps by itself. 

First, we observe various changes in things. And Mr. Locke 
takes it for granted, that changes in external things are observed 
by our senses, and that changes in our thoughts are observed by 
consciousness. 

I grant that it may be said, that changes in things are observed 
by our senses, when we do not mean to exclude every other 
faculty from a share in this operation. And it would be ridi- 
culous to censure the phrase, when it is so used in popular dis- 
course. But it is necessary to Mr. Locke's purpose, that changes 
in external things should be observed by the senses alone, ex- 
cluding every other faculty ; because every faculty that is neces- 
sary in order to observe the change, will claim a share in the 
origin of the idea of power. 

Now, it is evident, that memory is no less necessary than the 
senses, in order to our observing changes in external things, and 
therefore the idea of power, derived from the changes observed, 
may as justly be ascribed to memory as to the senses. 

Every change supposes two states of the thing changed. Both 
these states may be past ; one of them at least must be past ; 
and one only can be present. By our senses we may observe 
the present state of the thing ; but memory must supply us with 
the past ; and, unless we remember the past state, we can per- 
ceive no change. 

[The same observation may be applied to consciousness. The 



OF MR. HUME'S OPINION OF THE IDEA OF POWER. Qg 

truth, therefore, is, that by the senses alone, without memory, or 
by consciousness alone, without memory, no change can be ob- 
served^ Every idea, therefore, that is derived from observing 
changes in things, must have its origin, partly from memory, and 
not from the senses alone, nor from consciousness alone, nor 
from both together. 

The second step made by the mind in forming this idea of 
power is this : from the changes observed, we collect a cause of 
those changes, and a power to produce them. 

Here one might ask Mr. Locke, whether it is by bur senses 
that we draw this conclusion, or is it by consciousness ? Is rea- 
soning the province of the senses, or is it the province of con- 
sciousness ? If the senses can draw one conclusion from premises, 
they may draw five hundred, and demonstrate the whole Elements 
of Euclid. 

Thus, I think, it appears, that [the account which Mr. Locke 
himself gives of the origin of our idea of power, cannot be recon- 
ciled to his favourite doctrine, that all our simple ideas have 
their origin from sensation or reflection ; and that, in attempting 
to derive the idea of power from these two sources only, he un- 
awares brings in our memory and our reasoning 'power for a share 
in its origin.] 



CHAPTER IV. 

OF MR. HUME'S OPINION OF THE IDEA OF POWER. 

I. Induction, by which Mr. Hume attempts to explain the origin 
of our simple ideas, imperfect. — This very ingenious author adopts 
the principle of Mr. Locke before mentioned, — That all our 
simple ideas are derived either from sensation or reflection. This 
he seems to understand, even in a stricter sense than Mr. Locke 
did ; for he will have all our simple ideas to be copies of pre- 
ceding impressions, either of our external senses or of conscious- 
ness. " After the most accurate examination," says he, " of 
which I am capable, I venture to affirm, that the rule here holds 
without any exception, and that every simple idea has a simple 
impression which resembles it, and every simple impression a 
correspondent idea. Every one may satisfy himself in this point, 
by running over as many as he pleases." 

[I observe here, by the way, that this conclusion is formed by 
the author rashly and unphilosophically. For it is a conclusion 
that admits of no proof but by induction ; and it is upon this 
ground that he himself founds it. The induction cannot be per- 
fect till every simple idea that can enter into the human mind be 
examined, and be shown to be copied from a resembling impres- 
sion of sense or of consciousness.] No man can pretend to have 



94 ESSAY I. CHAP. IV. 

made this examination of all our simple ideas without exception ; 
and, therefore, no man can, consistently with the rules of philo- 
sophizing, assure us, that this conclusion holds without any 
exception. 

The author professes, in his title-page, to introduce into moral 
subjects the experimental method of reasoning. This was a very 
laudable attempt ; but he ought to have known, that it is a rule 
in the experimental method of reasoning, That conclusions, 
established by induction, ought never to exclude exceptions, if 
any such should afterwards appear from observation or experi- 
ment. Sir Isaac Newton, speaking of such conclusions, says, 
" Et si quando in experiundo postea reperiatur aliquid, quod a 
parte contraria faciat ; turn demum, non sine istis exceptionibus 
affirmetur conclusio opportebit." " And if at any time, in the 
course of experimenting, a contrary instance occur, then the con- 
clusion must necessarily be affirmed subject to such exception." 
" But," says our author, " J will venture to affirm, that the rule 
here holds without any exception." 

Accordingly, throughout the whole treatise, this general rule 
is considered as of sufficient authority, in itself, to exclude, even 
from a hearing, every thing that appears to be an exception to 
it. This is contrary to the fundamental principles of the experi- 
mental method of reasoning, and therefore may be called rash 
and unphilosophical. 

II. [Having thus established this general principle, the author 
does great execution by it among our ideas. He finds, (1) that 
we have no idea of substance, material or spiritual ; (2) that body 
and mind are only certain trains of related impressions and ideas ; 
(3) that we have no idea of space or duration ; and (4) no idea of 
power, active or intellective.] 

Mr. Locke used his principle of sensation and reflection with 
greater moderation and mercy. Being unwilling to thrust the 
ideas we have mentioned into the limbo of non-existence, he 
stretches sensation and reflection to the very utmost, in order to 
receive these ideas within the pale ; and draws them into it, as 
it were, by violence. 

But this author, instead of showing them any favour, seems 
fond to get rid of them. 

Of the ideas mentioned, it is only that of power that concerns 
our present subject. And, with regard to this, the author 
boldly affirms, " That we never have any idea of power; that 
we deceive ourselves when we imagine we are possessed of any 
idea of this kind." 

He begins with observing, " That the terms efficacy, agency, 
power, force, energy, are all nearly synonymous ; and therefore 
it is an absurdity to employ any of them in defining the rest. 
By this observation," says he, " we reject at once all the vulgar 
definitions which philosophers have given of power and efficacy" 



OF MR. HUME'S OPINION OF THE IDEA OF POWER. 95 

Surely this author was not ignorant, that there are many 
things of which we have a clear aiid distinct conception, which 
are so simple in their nature, that they cannot be denned any 
other way than by synonymous words. It is true that this is 
not a logical definition ; but that there is, as he affirms, an ab- 
surdity in using it, when no better can be had, I cannot per- 
ceive. 

He might here have applied to power and efficacy what he 
says, in another place, of pride and humility. " The passions 
of pride and humility " he says, " being simple and uniform 
impressions, it is impossible we can ever give a just definition 
of them. As the words are of general use, and the things they 
represent the most common of any, every one, of himself, will 
be able to form a just notion of them without danger of mis- 
take." 

He mentions Mr. Locke's account of the idea of power, That, 
observing various changes in things, we conclude that there 
must be somewhere a power capable of producing them, and 
so arrive at last, by this reasoning, at the idea of power and 
efficacy. 

" But," says he, " to be satisfied that this explication is 
more popular than philosophical, we need but reflect on two 
very obvious principles : first, That reason alone can never give 
rise to any original idea ; and, secondly, That reason, as dis- 
tinguished from experience, can never make us conclude that a 
cause, or productive quality, is absolutely requisite to every 
beginning of existence."* 

III. Before we consider the two principles which our author 
opposes to the popular opinion of Mr. Locke, I observe, 

First, That there are some popular opinions, which, on that 
very account, deserve more regard from philosophers than this 
author is willing to bestow. 

That things cannot begin to exist, nor undergo any change, 
without a cause that hath power to produce that change, is in- 
deed so popular an opinion, that, I believe, this author is the 
first of mankind that ever called it in question. It is so popu- 
lar, that there is not a man of common prudence who does not 
act from this opinion, and rely upon it every day of his life. 
And any man who should conduct himself by the contrary opi- 
nion, would soon be confined as insane, and continue in that 
state, till a sufficient cause was found for his enlargement. 

Such a popular opinion as this stands upon a higher autho- 
rity than that of philosophy, and philosophy must strike sail to 
it, if she would not render herself contemptible to every man of 
common understanding. 

* Vide Essay IV., chap. ix. sec. 9. 



96 ESSAY I. CHAP. IV. 

For though, in matters of deep speculation, the multitude 
must be guided by philosophers, yet, in things that are within 
the reach of every man's understanding, and upon which the 
whole conduct of human life turns, the philosopher must follow 
the multitude, or make himself perfectly ridiculous. 

Secondly, I observe, that whether this popular opinion be true 
or false, it follows from men's having this opinion, that they 
have an idea of power. A false opinion about power, no less 
than a true, implies an idea of power ; for how can men have 
any opinion, true or false, about a thing of which they have no 
idea ? 

IV. Of the two principles which Mr. Hume opposes to Mr. Locke. 
— [The first of the very obvious principles which the author 
opposes to Mr. Locke's account of the idea of power, is, That 
reason alone can never give rise to any original idea.] 

This appears to me so far from being a very obvious prin- 
ciple, that the contrary is very obvious. 

Is it not our reasoning faculty that gives rise to the idea of 
reasoning itself? As our idea of sight takes its rise from our 
being endowed with that faculty, so does our idea of reasoning. 
Do not the ideas of demonstration, of probability, our ideas of 
a syllogism, of major, minor and conclusion, of an enthymeme, 
dilemma, sorites, and all the various modes of reasoning, take 
their rise from the faculty of reason ? Or is it possible, that a 
being, not endowed with the faculty of reasoning, should have 
these ideas ? This principle, therefore, is so far from being 
obviously true, that it appears to be obviously false. 

[The second obvious principle is, That reason, as distinguished 
from experience, can never make us conclude, that a cause, or 
productive quality, is absolutely requisite to every beginning of 
existence.] 

In some " Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man," I had 
occasion to treat of this principle, That every change in nature 
must have a cause ; and, to prevent repetition, I beg leave to 
refer the reader to what is said upon this subject, Essay vi. 
^ichap. 6. I endeavoured to show, that it is a first principle, 
evident to all men come to years of understanding. Besides its 
having been universally received, without the least doubt, from 
the beginning of the world, it has this sure mark of a first prin- 
ciple, that the belief of it is absolutely necessary in the ordinary 
affairs of life, and, without it, no man could act with common 
prudence, or avoid the imputation of insanity. Yet a philoso- 
pher, who acted upon the firm belief of it every day of his life, 
thinks fit, in his closet, to call it in question. 

[He insinuates here, that we may know it from experience. 
I endeavoured to show, that we do not learn it from experience, 
for two reasons.] 
.- 



OF BEINGS THAT HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING. 97 

[First, Because it is a necessary truth, and has always been 
received as a necessary truth. Experience gives no information 
of what is necessary, or of what must be.] 

We may know from experience, what is, or what was, and 
from that may probably conclude what shall be in like circum- 
stances ; but with regard to what must necessarily be, experience 
is perfectly silent. 

iiF Thus we know, by unvaried experience, from the begin- 
ning of the world, that the sun and stars rise in the east and set 
in the west. But no man believes that it could not possibly 
have been otherwise, or that it did not depend upon the will 
and power of Him who made the world, whether the earth 
should revolve to the east or to the west. 

In like manner, if we had experience, ever so constant, that 
every change in nature we have observed, actually had a cause, 
this might afford ground to believe, that, for the future, it shall 
be so ; but no ground at all to believe that it must be so, and 
cannot be otherwise. 

[Another reason to show that this principle is not learned from 
experience is, That experience does not show us a cause of one 
in a hundred of those changes which we observe, and therefore 
can never teach us that there must be a cause of all.] 

Of all the paradoxes this author has advanced, there is not 
one more shocking to the human understanding than this, That 
things may begin to exist without a cause. This would put an 
end to all speculation, as well as to all the business of life. The 
employment of speculative men, since the beginning of the 
world, has been to investigate the causes of things. What pity 
is it, they never thought of putting the previous question, Whe- 
ther things have a cause or not ? This question has at last been 
started ; and what is there so ridiculous as not to be maintained 
by some philosopher ? 

Enough has been said upon it, and more, I think, than it 
deserves. But being about to treat of the active powers of the 
human mind, I thought it improper to take no notice of what 
has been said by so celebrated a philosopher, to show that there 
is not, in the human mind, any idea of power. 



CHAPTER V. 

WHETHER BEINGS THAT HAVE NO WILL NOR UNDERSTANDING MAY HAVE 

ACTIVE POWER? 

I. The question perplexed by the ambiguity of certain terms. — 
That active power is an attribute, which cannot exist but in 
some being possessed of that power, and the subject of that 

H 



98 ESSAY I. CHAP. V. 

attribute, I take for granted as a self-evident truth. Whether 
there can be active power in a subject which has no thought, no 
understanding, no will, is not so evident. 

[The ajnbigmty of the words power, cause, agent, and of all 
the words related to these, tends to perplex this question.] The 
weakness of human understanding, which gives us only an indi- 
rect and relative conception of power, contributes to darken our 
reasoning, and should make us cautious and modest in our deter- 
minations. 

We can derive little light in this matter from the events which 
we observe in the course of nature. We perceive changes innu- 
merable in things without us. We know that those changes 
must be produced by the active power of some agent ; but we 
neither perceive the agent nor the power, but the change only. 
Whether the things be active, or merely passive, is not easily 
discovered. And though it may be an object of curiosity to the 
speculative few, it does not greatly concern the many. 

To know the event and the circumstances that attended it, and 
to know in what circumstances like events maybe expected, may 
be of consequence in the conduct of life ; but to know the real 
efficient, whether it be matter or mind, whether of a superior or 
inferior order, concerns us little. 

Thus it is with regard to all the effects we ascribe to nature. 

II. Nature is the name we give to the efficient cause of innu- 
merable effects which fall daily under our observation. But if 
it be asked what nature is ? — whether the first universal cause, 
or a subordinate one, whether one or many, whether intelligent 
or unintelligent ? — upon these points we find various conjectures 
and theories, but no solid ground upon which we can rest ; and 
I apprehend the wisest men are they who are sensible that they 
know nothing of the matter. 

From the course of events in the natural world, we have suf- 
ficient reason to conclude the existence of an eternal intelligent 
First Cause. But whether he acts immediately in the production 
of those events, or by subordinate intelligent agents, or by instru- 
ments that are unintelligent, and what the number, the nature, 
and the different offices of those agents or instruments may be ; 
these I apprehend to be mysteries placed beyond the limits of 
human knowledge. We see an established order in the succes- 
sion of natural events, but we see not the bond that connects 
them together. 

III. [Since we derive so little light, with regard to efficient 
causes and their active power, from attention to the natural 
world, let us next attend to the moral, I mean, to human actions 
and conduct.] 

Mr. Locke observes very justly, " That, from the observation 
of the operation of bodies by our senses, we have but a very 



OF BEINGS THAT HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING. 99 

imperfect obscure idea of active power, since they afford us not 
any idea in themselves of the power to begin any action, either 
of motion or thought." He adds, " That we find in ourselves a 
power to begin or forbear, continue or end several actions of our 
minds and motions of our bodies, barely by a thought or prefer- 
ence of the mind, ordering, or, as it were, commanding the doing 
or not doing such a particular action. This power which the 
mind has thus to order the consideration of any idea, or the for- 
bearing to consider it, or to prefer the motion of any part of the 
body to its rest, and vice versa, in any particular instance, is that 
which we call the will. The actual exercise of that power, by 
directing any particular action, or its forbearance, is that which 
we call volition or willing.'" 

According to Mr. Locke, therefore, the only clear notion or 
idea we have of active power, is taken from the power which we 
find in ourselves to give certain -motions to our bodies, or a cer- 
tain direction to our thoughts ; and this power in ourselves can 
be brought into action only by willing or volition. 

IV. Volition necessary to the operation of power. — [From this, 
I think, it follows, that^if we had not will, and that degree of 
understanding which will necessarily implies, we could exert no 
active power, and consequently could have none : for p ower that 
cannot be exerted is no power. It follows also, that the active 
power, of which only we can have any distinct conception, can 
be only in beings that have understanding and will.] 

Power to produce any effect implies power not to produce it. 
We can conceive no way in which power may be determined to 
one of these rather than the other, in a being that has no will. 

[Whatever is the effect of active power must be something 
that is contingent. Contingent existence is that which depended 
upon the power and will of its cause. Opposed to this, is neces- 
sary existence, which we ascribe to the Supreme Being, because 
his existence is not owing to the power of any being. The same 
distinction there is between contingent and necessary truth.] 

giF That the planets of our system go round the sun from 
west to east, is a contingent truth ; because it depended upon the 
power and will of him who made the planetary system, and gave 
motion to it. That a circle and a right line can cut one another 
only in two points, is a truth which depends upon no power nor 
will, and therefore is called necessary and immutable. Contin- 
gency, therefore, has a relation to active power, as all active 
power is exerted in contingent events ; and as such events can 
have no existence, but by the exertion of active power. 

Igf When I observe a plant growing from its seed to maturity, 
I know that there must be a cause that has power to produce 
this effect. But I see neither the cause nor the manner of its 
operation. 

u2 



100 ESSAY I. CHAP. V. 

But in certain motions of my body and directions of my 
thought, I know, not only that there must be a cause that has 
power to produce these effects, but that I am that cause ; and I 
am conscious of what I do in order to the production of them. 

From the consciousness of our own activity, seems to be 
derived, not only the clearest, but the only conception we can 
form of activity, or the exertion of active power. 

As I am unable to form a notion of any intellectnal power 
different in kind from those I possess, the same holds with respect 
to active power. If all men had been blind, we should have had 
no conception of the power of seeing, nor any name for it in 
language. If man had not the powers of abstraction and rea- 
soning, we could not have had any conception of these operations. 
In like manner, if he had not some degree of active power, and 
if he were not conscious of the exertion of it in his voluntary 
actions, it is probable he could have no conception of activity, or 
of active power. 

A train of events following one another ever so regularly, 
could never lead us to the notion of a cause, if we had not, from 
our constitution, a conviction of the necessity of a cause to every 
event. 

And of the manner in which a cause may exert its active 
power, we can have no conception but from consciousness of the 
manner in which our own active power is exerted. 

With regard to the operations of nature, it is sufficient for us 
to know, that, whatever the agents may be, whatever the manner 
of their operation, or the extent of their power, they depend 
upon the First Cause, and are under his control ; and this indeed 
is all that we know ; beyond this we are left in darkness. But, 
in what regards human actions, we have a more immediate 
concern. 

It is of the highest importance to us, as moral and accountable 
creatures, to know what actions are in our own power, because 
it is for these only that we can be accountable to our Maker, 
or to our fellow-men in society ; by these only we can merit 
praise or blame ; in these only all our prudence, wisdom and vir- 
tue must be employed ; and, therefore, with regard to them, the 
wise Author of nature has not left us in the dark. 

Every man is led by nature to attribute to himself the free 
determinations of his own will, and to believe those events to be 
in his power which depend upon his will. On the other hand, 
it is self-evident, that nothing is in our power that is not subject 
to our will. 

We grow from childhood to manhood, we digest our food, our 
blood circulates, our heart and arteries beat, we are sometimes 
sick and sometimes in health ; all these things must be done by 
the power of some agent ; but they are not done by our power. 



OF BEINGS THAT HAVE NO UNDERSTANDING. 1QJ 

How do we know this ? Because they are not subject to our 
will. This is the infallible criterion by which we distinguish 
what is our doing from what is not ; what is in our power from 
what is not. 

[Human poiver, therefore, can only be exerted by will, and we 
are unable to conceive any active power to be exerted without 
will. Every man knows infallibly that what is done by his con- 
scious will and intention, is to be imputed to him as the agent or 
cause ; and that whatever is done without his will and intention, 
cannot be imputed to him with truth.] 

We judge of the actions and conduct of other men by the 
same rule as we judge of our own. In morals, it is self-evident 
that no man can be the object either of approbation or of blame 
for what he did not. But how shall we know whether it is his 
doing or not ? If the action depended upon his wall, and if he 
intended and willed it, it is his action in the judgment of all 
mankind. But if it was done without his knowledge, or with- 
out his will and intention, it is as certain that he did it not, and 
that it ought not to be imputed to him as the agent. 

When there is any doubt to whom a particular action ought 
to be imputed, the doubt arises only from our ignorance of facts ; 
when the facts relating to it are known, no man of understand- 
ing has any doubt to whom the action ought to be imputed. 

Y. [The general rules of imputation are self-evident. They 
have been the same in all ages, and among all civilized nations.] 
No man blames another for being black or fair, for having a fever 
or the falling sickness ; because these things are believed not to 
be in his power ; and they are believed not to be in his power, 
because they depend not upon his will. [We can never conceive 
that a man's duty goes beyond his power, or that his power goes 
beyond what depends upon his will.] 

Reason leads us to ascribe unlimited power to the Supreme 
Being. But what do we mean by unlimited power ? It is 
power to do whatsoever he wills. To suppose him to do what he 
does not will to do, is absurd. 

VI. Our conception of active power relative. — [The only dis- 
tinct conception I can form of active powder is, that it is an attri- 
bute in a being by which he can do certain things if he wills. 
This, after all, is only a relative conception. It is relative to the 
effect, and to the will of producing it.] Take away these, and 
the conception vanishes. They are the handles by which the 
mind takes hold of it. When they are taken away, our hold is 
gone. The same is the case with regard to other relative concep- 
tions. Thus velocity is a real state of a body, about which philo- 
sophers reason with the force of demonstration ; but our concep- 
tion of it is relative to space and time. What is velocity in a 
body ? It is a state in which it passes through a certain space in 



]02 ESSAY I. CHAP. V. 

a certain time. Space and time are very different from velocity ; 
but we cannot conceive it but by its relation to them. The 
effect produced, and the will to produce it, are things different 
from active power, but we can have no conception of it, but by 
its relation to them. 

Whether the conception of an efficient cause, and of real 
activity, could ever have entered into the mind of man, if we had 
not had the experience of activity in ourselves, I am not able to 
determine with certainty. The origin of many of our concep- 
tions, and even of many of our judgments, is not so easily traced 
as philosophers have generally conceived. No man can recollect 
the time when he first got the conception of an efficient cause, 
or the time when he first got the belief that an efficient cause is 
necessary to every change in nature. The conception of an 
efficient cause may very probably be derived from the experience 
we have had in very early life of our own power to produce cer- 
tain effects. But the belief, that no event can happen without 
an efficient cause, cannot be derived from experience. We may 
learn from experience what is, or what was, but no experience 
can teach us what necessarily must be. 

In like manner, we probably derive the conception of pain 
from the experience we have had of it in ourselves ; but our 
belief that pain can only exist in a being that hath life, cannot 
be got by experience, because it is a necessary truth ; and no 
necessary truth can have its attestation from experience. 

If it be so that the conception of an efficient cause enters into 
the mind, only from the early conviction we have that we are 
the efficients of our own voluntary actions, (which I think is 
most probable,) the notion of efficiency will be reduced to this, — 
That it is a relation between the cause and the effect, similar to 
that which is between us and our voluntary actions. This is 
surely the most distinct notion, and, I think, the only notion we 
can form of real efficiency. 

Now it is evident, that, to constitute the relation between me 
and my action, my conception of the action, and will to do it, are 
essential. For what I never conceived, nor willed, I never did. 

If any man, therefore, affirms, that a being may be the efficient 
cause of an action, and have power to produce it, which that 
being can neither conceive nor will, he speaks a language which 
I do not understand. If he has a meaning, his notion of power 
and efficiency must be essentially different from mine ; and, until 
he conveys his notion of efficiency to my understanding, I can no 
more assent to his opinion, than if he should affirm, that a being 
without life may feel pain. 

It seems, therefore, to me most probable, that such beings 
only as have some degree of understanding and will, can possess 
active power : and that inanimate beings must be merely passive, 



OF THE PHENOMENA OF NATURE. \Qg 

and have no real activity. Nothing we perceiYe without us 
affords any good ground for ascribing active power to any inani- 
mate being ; and every thing we can discover in our own consti- 
tution, leads us to think, that active power cannot be exerted 
without will and intelligence. 



CHAPTER VI. 

OF THE EFFICIENT CAUSES OF THE PHENOMENA OF NATURE. 

I. Of powers ascribed to matter. — If active power, in its pro- 
per meaning, requires a subject endowed with will and intelli- 
gence, what shall we say of those active powers which philoso- 
phers teach us to ascribe to matter ; the powers of corpuscular 
attraction, magnetism, electricity, gravitation, and others ? Is 
it not universally allowed, that heavy bodies descend to the earth 
by the power of gravity ; that, by the same power, the moon, 
and all the planets and comets, are retained in their orbits ? 
Have the most eminent natural philosophers been imposing 
upon us, and giving us words instead of real causes ? 

In answer to this, I apprehend, that the principles of natural 
philosophy have, in modern times, been built upon a foundation 
that cannot be shaken, and that they can be called in question 
only by those who do not understand the evidence on which they 
stand. [But the ambiguity of the words cause, agency, active 
power, and the other words related to these, has led many to un- 
derstand them, when used in natural philosophy, in a wrong sense, 
and in a sense which is neither necessary for establishing the true 
principles of natural philosophy, nor was ever meant by the most 
enlightened in that science.] 

To be convinced of this, we may observe, that those very 
philosophers who attribute to matter the power of gravitation, 
and other active powers, teach us, at the same time, that mat- 
ter is a substance altogether inert, and merely passive ; that 
gravitation, and the other attractive or repulsive powers which 
they ascribe to it, are not inherent in its nature, but impressed 
upon it by some external cause, which they do not pretend to 
know, or to explain. Now, when we find wise men ascribing 
action and active power to a substance which they expressly 
teach us to consider as merely passive, and acted upon by some 
unknown cause, we must conclude that the action and active 
power ascribed to it are not to be understood strictly, but in 
some popular sense. 

II. It ought likewise to be observed, that although philoso- 
phers, for the sake of being understood, must speak the lan- 
guage of the vulgar, as when they say, the sun rises and sets, 



1Q4 ESSAY I. CHAP. VI. 

and goes thrpugh all the signs of the zodiac, yet they often 
think differently from the vulgar. Let us hear what the great- 
est of natural philosophers says, in the 8th definition prefixed to 
his " Principia," " Voces autem attractionis, impulsus, vel pro- 
pensionis cujuscunque in centrum, indifferenter et pro se mutuo 
promiscue usurpo ; has voces non physice sed mathematice consi- 
derando. Unde caveat lector, ne per hujus modi voces cogitet me 
speciem vel modum actionis, causamve aut rationem physicam, 
alicubi definire ; vel centris (quae sunt puncta mathematica) 
vires vere et physice tribuere, si forte centra trahere, aut vires 
centrorum esse, dixero." 

" But I use the words attraction, impulse, or propensity of 
any sort towards a centre, promiscuously and indifferently one 
for another, considering those forces not physically but ma- 
thematically. Therefore if I happen to speak of centres as at- 
tracting, or as endued with attractive powers, let the reader 
beware lest he imagine, that I anywhere take upon me to define 
the kind, or the manner of the action ; or the cause or physical 
reason thereof ; or that I attribute forces in a true and physical 
sense, to certain centres which are only mathematical points." 

[In all languages, action is attributed to many things which 
all men of common understanding believe to be merely passive ; 
thus we say, the wind blows, the rivers flow, the sea rages, the 
fire burns, bodies move, and impel other bodies.] 

Every object which undergoes any change, must be either 
active or passive in that change. This is self-evident to all 
men from the first dawn of reason ; and therefore the change 
is always expressed in language, either by an active or a passive 
verb. Nor do I know any verb, expressive of a change, which 
does not imply either action or passion. The thing either 
changes, or it is changed. [But it is remarkable in language, 
that when an external cause of the change is not obvious, the 
change is always imputed to the thing changed, as if it were 
animated, and had active power to produce the change in it- 
self. So we say, the moon changes, the sun rises and goes down.] 

Thus active verbs are very often applied, and active power 
imputed to things, which a little advance in knowledge and expe- 
rience teaches us to be merely passive. This property, common 
to all languages, I endeavoured to account for in the second 
chapter of this Essay, to which the reader is referred. 

III. A like irregularity may be observed in the use of the 
word signifying cause, in all languages, and of the words re- 
lated to it. 

Our knowledge of causes is very scanty in the most advanced 
state of society, much more is it so in that early period in which 
language is formed. A strong desire to know the causes of 
things, is common to all men in every state ; but the experience 



OF THE PHENOMENA OF NATURE. 105 

of all ages shows that this keen appetite, rather than go empty, 
will feed upon the husks of real knowledge where the fruit 
cannot be found. 

While we are very much in the dark with regard to the real 
agents or causes which produce the phenomena of Nature, and 
have, at the same time, an avidity to know them, ingenious 
men frame conjectures, which those of weaker understanding 
take for truth. The fare is coarse, but appetite makes it go down. 

Thus, in a very ancient system, love and strife were made the 
causes of things. Plato made the causes of things to be matter, 
ideas, and an efficient architect. Aristotle, matter, form, and 
privation. Des Cartes thought matter, and a certain quantity 
of motion given it by the Almighty at first, to be all that is ne- 
cessary to make the material world. Leibnitz conceived the 
whole universe, even the material part of it, to be made up of 
monades, each of which is active and intelligent, and produces 
in itself, by its own active power, all the changes it undergoes 
from the beginning of its existence to eternity. 

In common language, we give the name of a cause to a rea- 
son, a motive, an end, to any circumstance which is connected 
with the effect, and goes before it. 

IV. [Aristotle, and the schoolmen after him, distinguished 
four kinds of causes, the efficient, the material, the formal, and 
the final.'] This, like many of Aristotle's distinctions, is only 
a distinction of the various meanings of an ambiguous word ; 
for the efficient, the matter, the form, and the end, have no- 
thing common in their nature, by which they may be accounted 
species of the same genus ; but the Greek word which we trans- 
late cause, had these four different meanings in Aristotle's days, 
and we have added other meanings. We do not indeed call 
the matter or the form of a thing its cause ; but we have final 
causes, instrumental causes, occasional causes, and I know not how 
many others. 

Thus the word cause has been so hackneyed, and made to 
have so many different meanings in the writings of philoso- 
phers, and in the discourse of the vulgar, that its original and 
proper meaning is lost in the crowd. 

With regard to the phenomena of nature, the important end 
of knowing their causes, besides gratifying our curiosity, is, 
that we may know when to expect them, or how to bring them 
about. This is very often of real importance in life ; and this 
purpose is served, by knowing what, by the course of nature, 
goes before them and is connected with them ; and this, there- 
fore, we call the cause of such a phenomenon. 

iiF If a magnet be brought near to a mariner's compass, the 
needle, which was before at rest, immediately begins to move, 
and bends its course towards the magnet, or perhaps the con- 



IQQ ESSAY I. CHAP. VI. 

trary way. If an unlearned sailor is asked the cause of this 
motion of the needle, he is at no loss for an answer. He tells 
you it is the magnet ; and the proof is clear ; for, remove the 
magnet, and the effect ceases ; bring it near, and the effect is 
again produced. It is, therefore, evident to sense, that the mag- 
net is the cause of this effect. 

A Cartesian philosopher enters deeper into the cause of this 
phenomenon. He observes, that the magnet does not touch 
the needle, and therefore can give it no impulse. He pities 
the ignorance of the sailor. The effect is produced, says he, 
by magnetic effluvia, or subtile matter, which passes from the 
magnet to the needle, and forces it from its place. He can 
even show you, in a figure, where these magnetic effluvia issue 
from the magnet, what round they take, and what way they 
return home again. And thus he thinks he comprehends per- 
fectly how, and by what cause, the motion of the needle is pro- 
duced. 

A Newtonian philosopher inquires what proof can be offered 
for the existence of magnetic effluvia, and can find none : he 
therefore holds it as a fiction, a hypothesis ; and he has learned 
that hypotheses ought to have no place in the philosophy of 
nature. He confesses his ignorance of the real cause of this 
motion, and thinks that his business, as a philosopher, is only 
to find from experiment the laws by which it is regulated in all 
cases. 

These three persons differ much in their sentiments with 
regard to the real cause of this phenomenon ; and the man who 
knows most is he who is sensible that he knows nothing of 
the matter. Yet all the three speak the same language, and 
acknowledge that the cause of this motion is the attractive or 
repulsive power of the magnet. 

V. What has been said of this, may be applied to every phe- 
nomenon that falls within the compass of natural philosophy. 
We deceive ourselves, if we conceive that we can point out the 
real efficient cause of any one of them. 

[The grandest discovery ever made in natural philosophy, was 
that of the laiv of gravitation, which opens such a view of our 
planetary system, that it looks like something divine. But the 
author of this discovery was perfectly aware that he discovered 
no real cause, but only the law or rule according to which the 
unknown cause operates.] 

Natural philosophers, who think accurately, have a precise 
meaning to the terms they use in the science ; and when they 
pretend to show the cause of any phenomenon of nature, they 
mean by the cause, a law of nature of which that phenomenon 
is a necessary consequence. 

The whole object of natural philosophy, as Newton expressly 



OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. JQY 

teaches, is reducible to these two heads : first, by just indue- 
Hon from experiment and observation, to discover the laws of 
Nature, and then to apply those laws to the solution of the 
phenomena of Nature. This was all that this great philosopher 
attempted, and all that he thought attainable. And this in- 
deed he attained in a great measure, with regard to the motions 
of our planetary system, and with regard to the rays of light. 

But supposing that all the phenomena that fall within the 
reach of our senses were accounted for from general laws of na- 
ture, justly deduced from experience ; that is, supposing na- 
tural philosophy brought to its utmost perfection, it does not 
discover the efficient cause of any one phenomenon in nature. 

The laws of nature are the rules according to which the effects 
are produced ; but there must be a cause which operates according 
to these rules. The rules of navigation never navigated a ship. 
The rules of architecture never built a house. 

Natural philosophers, by great attention to the course of na- 
ture, have discovered many of her laws, and have very happily 
applied them to account for many phenomena ; but they have 
never discovered the efficient cause of any one phenomenon ; 
nor do those who have distinct notions of the principles of the 
science, make any such pretence. 

Upon the theatre of nature we see innumerable effects, which 
require an agent, endowed with active power ; but the agent is 
behind the scene. [Whether it be (1) the Supreme Cause alone, 
or (2) a subordinate cause or causes, and (3) if subordinate 
causes be employed by the Almighty, what their nature, their 
number, and their different offices may be, are things hid, for 
wise reasons without doubt, from the human eye.] 

It is only in human actions, that may be imputed for praise or 
blame, that it is necessary for us to know who is the agent ; and 
in this, nature has given us all the light that is necessary for our 
conduct. 



CHAPTER VII. 



OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. 



I. Power an attribute of accountable beings. — Every thing 
laudable and praiseworthy in man, must consist in the proper 
exercise of that power which is given him by his Maker. This 
is the talent which he is required to occupy, and of which he 
must give an account to him who committed it to his trust. 

[To some persons more power is given than to others ; and to 
the same person more at one time and less at another. Its exist- 



108 ESSAY I. CHAP. VII. 

ence, its extent, and its continuance, depend solely upon the 
pleasure of the Almighty ; but every man that is accountable 
must have more or less of it. For, to call a person to account, to 
approve or disapprove of his conduct, who had no power to do 
good or ill, is absurd.] No axiom of Euclid appears more evi- 
dent than this. 

As power is a valuable gift, to under-rate it is ingratitude to 
the giver ; to over-rate it, begets pride and presumption, and 
leads to unsuccessful attempts. It is therefore, in every man, a 
point of wisdom to make a just estimate of his own power. 
" Quid ferre recusent, quid valeant humeri." 

II. [We can only speak of the power of man in general ; and 
as our notion of power is relative to its effects, we can estimate 
its extent only by the effects which it is able to produce.] 

It would be wrong to estimate the extent of human power 
by the effects which it has actually produced. For every man 
had power to do many things which he did not, and not to do 
many things which he did ; otherwise he could not be an object 
either of approbation or of disapprobation, to any rational being. 

The effects of human power are either immediate, or they are 
more remote. 

The immediate effects, I think, are reducible to two heads. 
We can give certain motions to our own bodies ; and we can 
give a certain direction to our own thoughts. 

Whatever we can do beyond this, must be done by one of 
these means, or both. 

We can produce no motion in any body in the universe, but 
by moving first our own body as an instrument. Nor can we 
produce thought in any other person, but by thought and motion 
in ourselves. 

Our power to move our own body is not only limited in its 
extent, but in its nature is subject to mechanical laws. It may 
be compared to a spring endowed with the power of contracting 
or expanding itself, but which cannot contract without drawing 
equally at both ends, nor expand without pushing equally at 
both ends ; so that every action of the spring is always accom- 
panied with an equal re-action in a contrary direction. 

We can conceive a man to have power to move his whole body 
in any direction, without the aid of any other body, or a power 
to move one part of his body without the aid of any other part. 
But philosophy teaches us that man has no such power. 

If he carries his whole body in any direction with a certain 
quantity of motion, this he can do only by pushing the earth, 
or some other body, with an equal quantity of motion in the 
contrary direction. If he but stretch out his arm in one direc- 
tion, the rest of his body is pushed with an equal quantity of 
motion in the contrary direction. 



OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN FOWER. JQ9 

This is the case with regard to all animal and voluntary mo- 
tions, which come within the reach of our senses. They are 
performed by the contraction of certain muscles ; and a muscle, 
when it is contracted, draws equally at both ends. As to the 
motions antecedent to the contraction of the muscle, and conse- 
quently upon the volition of the animal, we know nothing, and 
can say nothing about them. 

We know not even how those immediate effects of our power 
are produced by our willing them. We perceive not any neces- 
sary connexion between the volition and exertion on our part> 
and the motion of our body that follows them. 

ffHF Anatomists inform us, that every voluntary motion of the 
body is performed by the contraction of certain muscles, and that 
the muscles are contracted by some influence derived from the 
nerves. But, without thinking in the least either of muscles or 
nerves, we will only the external effect, and the internal ma- 
chinery, without our call, immediately produces that effect. 

This is one of the wonders of our frame, which we have rea- 
son to admire ; but to account for it is beyond the reach of our 
understanding. 

That there is an established harmony between our willing cer- 
tain motions of our bodies, and the operation of the nerves and 
muscles which produces those motions, is a fact known by expe- 
rience. This volition is an act of the mind. But whether this 
act of the mind have any physical effect upon the nerves and 
muscles, or whether it be only an occasion of their being acted 
upon by some other efficient, according to the established laws of 
nature, is hid from us. So dark is our conception of our own 
power when we trace it to its origin. 

III. [We have good reason to believe, that matter had its 
origin from mind, as well as all its motions ; but how, or in what 
manner, it is moved by mind, we know as little as how it was 
created.] 

It is possible, therefore, for any thing we know, that what we 
call the immediate effects of our power, may not be so in the 
strictest sense. Between the will to produce the effect, and the 
production of it, there may be agents or instruments of which we 
are ignorant. 

This may leave some doubt, whether we be, in the strictest 
sense, the efficient cause of the voluntary motions of our own 
body. But it can produce no doubt with regard to the moral 
estimation of our actions. 

The man who knows that such an event depends upon his 
will, and who deliberately wills to produce it, is, in the strictest 
moral sense, the cause of the event ; and it is justly imputed to 
him, whatever physical causes may have concurred in its pro- 
duction. 



HO ESSAY I. CHAP. VII. 

ggi" Thus, he who maliciously intends to shoot his neighbour 
dead, and voluntarily does it, is undoubtedly the cause of his 
death, though he did no more to occasion it than draw the trigger 
of the gun. He neither gave to the ball its velocity, nor to the 
powder its expansive force, nor to the flint and steel the power 
to strike fire ; but he knew that what he did must be followed 
b}^ the man's death, and did it with that intention ; and therefore 
he is justly chargeable with the murder. 

Philosophers may therefore dispute innocently, whether we be 
the proper efficient causes of the voluntary motions of our own 
body; or whether we be only, as Malebranche thinks, the occa- 
sional causes. The determination of this question, if it can be 
determined, can have no effect on human conduct. 

IV. The other branch of what is immediately in our power, 
is to give a certain direction to our own thoughts. This, as well 
as the first branch, is limited in various ways. It is greater in 
some persons than in others, and in the same person is very dif- 
ferent, according to the health of his body, and the state of his 
mind. [But that men, when free from disease of body and of 
mind, have a considerable degree of power of this kind, and that 
it may be greatly increased by practice and habit, is sufficiently 
evident from experience, and from the natural conviction of all 
mankind.] 

[Were we to examine minutely (1) into the connexion between 
our volitions, and the direction of our thoughts which obey these 
volitions ; were we to consider (2) how we are able to give atten- 
tion to an object for a certain time, and turn our attention to 
another when we choose, we might perhaps find it difficult to 
determine, whether the mind itself be the sole efficient cause of 
the voluntary changes in the direction of our thoughts, or whe- 
ther it requires the aid of other efficient causes.] 

I see no good reason why the dispute about efficient and occa- 
sional causes may not be applied to the power of directing our 
thoughts, as well as to the power of moving our bodies. In 
both cases, I apprehend, the dispute is endless, and, if it could be 
brought to an issue, would be fruitless. 

Nothing appears more evident to our reason, than that there 
must be an efficient cause of every change that happens in na- 
ture. But when I attempt to comprehend the manner in which 
an efficient cause operates, either upon body or upon mind, there 
is a darkness which my faculties are not able to penetrate. 

V. [However small the immediate effects of human power 
seem to be, its more remote effects are very considerable.] 

B££F In this respect, the power of man may be compared to 
the Nile, the Ganges, and other great rivers, which make a 
figure upon the globe of the earth, and, traversing vast regions, 
bring sometimes great benefit, at other times great mischief, to 



OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. 

many nations ; yet, when we trace those rivers to their source, 
we find them to rise from inconsiderable fountains and rills. 

giF The command of a mighty prince, what is it but the sound 
of his breath, modified by his organs of speech ? But it may 
have great consequences ; it may raise armies, equip fleets, 
and spread war and desolation over a great part of the earth. 

The meanest of mankind has considerable power to do good, 
and more to hurt himself and others. 

From this I think we may conclude, that although the dege- 
neracy of mankind be great, and justly to be lamented, yet, men 
in general are more disposed to employ their power in doing 
good, than in doing hurt to their fellow-men. The last is much 
more in their power than the first ; and, if they were as much 
disposed to it, human society could not subsist, and the species 
must soon perish from the earth. 

VI. We may Jirst consider the effects which may be produced 
by human. power upon the material system. 

It is confined indeed to the planet which we inhabit; we 
cannot remove to another ; nor can we produce any change in the 
annual or diurnal motions of our own. 

But, by human power, great changes may be made upon the 
face of the earth ; and those treasures of metals and minerals that 
are stored up in its bowels, may be discovered and brought forth. 

The Supreme Being could, no doubt, have made the earth 
to supply the wants of man without any cultivation by human 
labour. Many inferior animals, who neither plant, nor sow, nor 
spin, are provided for by the bounty of Heaven. But this is not 
the case with man. 

He has active powers and ingenuity given him, by which he 
can do much for supplying his wants ; and his labour is made 
necessary for that purpose. 

His wants are more than those of any other animal that in- 
habits this globe ; and his resources are proportioned to them, 
and put within the sphere of his power. 

I3iF The earth is left by nature in such a state as to require 
cultivation for the accommodation of man. 

It is capable of cultivation, in most places, to such a degree, 
that, by human labour, it may afford subsistence to an hundred 
times the number of men it could in its natural state. 

Every tribe of men, in every climate, must labour for their 
subsistence and accommodation ; and their supply is more or 
less comfortable, in proportion to the labour properly employed 
for that purpose. 

It is evidently the intention of nature that man should be 
laborious, and that he should exert his powers of body and mind 
for his own and for the common good. And, by his power pro- 
perly applied, he may make great improvement upon the fertility 



\\C£ ESSAY I. CHAP. VII. 

of the earth, and a great addition to his own accommodation and 
comfortable state. 

By clearing, tilling, and manuring the ground, by planting and 
sowing, by building cities and harbours, draining marshes and 
lakes, making rivers navigable, and joining them by canals, by 
manufacturing the rude materials which the earth, duly culti- 
vated, produces in abundance, by the mutual exchange of com- 
modities and of labour, he may make the barren wilderness the 
habitation of rich and populous states. 

If we compare the city of Venice, the province of Holland, 
the empire of China, with those places of the earth which never 
felt the hand of industry, we may form some conception of the 
extent of human power upon the material system, in changing 
the face of the earth, and furnishing the accommodations of 
human life. 

VII. But, in order to produce those happy changes, man him- 
self must he improved. 

[His animal faculties are sufficient for the preservation of the 
species ; they grow up of themselves, like the trees of the forest, 
which require only the force of nature and the influences of 
heaven. • 

His rational and moral faculties, like the earth itself, are 
rude and barren by nature, but capable of a high degree of 
culture ; and this culture he must receive from parents, from 
instructors, from those with whom he lives in society, joined 
with his own industry.] 

If we consider the changes that may be produced by man 
upon his own mind, and upon the minds of others, they appear 
to be great. 

Upon his own mind he may make great improvement, in ac- 
quiring the treasures of useful knowledge, the habits of skill in 
arts, the habits of wisdom, prudence, self-command, and every 
other virtue. It is the constitution of nature, that such quali- 
ties as exalt and dignify human nature are to be acquired by 
proper exertions ; and, by a contrary conduct, such qualities as 
debase it below the condition of brutes. 

Even upon the minds of others, great effects may be produced 
by means within the compass of human power ; by means of 
good education, of proper instruction, of persuasion, of good 
example, and by the discipline of laws and government. 

That these have often had great and good effects on the civili- 
zation and improvement of individuals, and of nations, cannot be 
doubted. But what happy effects they might have, if applied 
universally with the skill and address that is within the reach of 
human wisdom and power, is not easily conceived, or to what 
pitch the happiness of human society, and the improvement of 
the species, might be carried. 



OF THE EXTENT OF HUMAN POWER. \ 13 

What a noble, what a divine employment of human power 
is here assigned us ! How ought it to rouse the ambition of 
parents, of instructors, of lawgivers, of magistrates, of every man 
in his station, to contribute his part towards the accomplishment 
of so glorious an end ! 

VIII. Human power entirely dependent upon God and the 
laws of nature. — [The power of man over his own and other 
minds, when we trace it to its origin, is involved in darkness, no 
less than his power to move his own and other bodies.] 

How far we are properly efficient causes, how far occasional 
causes, I cannot pretend to determine. 

We know that (1) habit produces great changes in the mind ; 
but how it does so, we know not. We know that (2) ex- 
ample has a powerful, and, in the early period of life, almost an 
irresistible effect ; but we know not how it produces this effect. 

(3) The communication of thought, sentiment, and passion, from 
one mind to another, has something in it as mysterious as the 
communication of motion from one body to another. 

We perceive one event to follow another, according to estab- 
lished laws of nature, and we are accustomed to call the first the 

(4) cause, and the last the effect, without knowing what is the 
bond that unites them. In order to produce a certain event, we 
use means which, by laws of nature, are connected with that 
event ; and we call ourselves the cause of that event, though 
other efficient causes may have had the chief hand in its pro- 
duction. 

Upon the whole, [human power, in its (1) existence, in its (2) 
extent, and in its (3) exertions, is entirely dependent upon God, 
and upon the laws of nature which he has established.] This 
ought to banish pride and arrogance from the most mighty of 
the sons of men. At the same time, that degree of power which 
we have received from the bounty of Heaven, is one of the noblest 
gifts of God to man ; of which we ought not to be insensible, 
that we may not be ungrateful, and that we may be excited to 
make the proper use of it. 

IX. The extent of human power is perfectly suited to the state 
of man, as a state of improvement and discipline. It is sufficient 
to animate us to the noblest exertions. By the proper exercise 
of this gift of God, human nature, in individuals and in societies, 
may be exalted to a high degree of dignity and felicity, and the 
earth become a paradise. On the contrary, its perversion and 
abuse is the cause of most of the evils that afflict human life. 



ESSAY II. 

OF THE WILL. 

CHAPTEK I. 

OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING THE WILL. 

I. Volition and will different. — Every man is conscious of a 
power to determine, in things which he conceives to depend upon 
his determination. To this power we give the name of will; 
and, as it is usual, in the operations of the mind, to give the 
same name to the power and to the act of that power, the term 
will is often put to signify the act of determining, which more 
properly is called volition. 

[Volition, therefore, signifies the act of willing and determining ; 
and will is put indifferently to signify either the power of willing, 
or the act.~\ 

But the term will has very often, especially in the writings of 
philosophers, a more extensive meaning, which we must care- 
fully distinguish from that which we have now given. 

In the general division of our faculties into understanding and 
will, our passions, appetites, and affections, are comprehended 
under the will ; and so it is made to signify, not only our deter- 
mination to act or not to act, but every motive and incitement 
to action. 

It is this, probably, that has led some philosophers to repre- 
sent desire, aversion, hope, fear, joy, sorrow, all our appetites, 
passions, and affections, as different modifications of the will, 
which, I think, tends to confound things which are very different 
in their nature. 

The advice given to a man, and his determination consequent 
to that advice, are things so different in their nature, that it 
would be improper to call them modifications of one and the 
same thing. In like manner, the motives to action, and the 
determination to act or not to act, are things that have no com- 
mon nature, and therefore ought not to be confounded under 
one name, or represented as different modifications of the same 
thing. 

II. The term will, how used. — [For this reason, in speaking of 



OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING THE WILL. U5 

the will in this Essay, I do not comprehend under that term any 
of the incitements or motives which may have an influence upon 
our determinations, but solely the determination itself, and the 
power to determined] 

Mr. Locke has considered this operation of the mind more 
attentively, and distinguished it more accurately, than some very 
ingenious authors who wrote after him. 

He defines volition* to be, " an act of the mind knowingly 
exerting that dominion it takes itself to have over any part of 
the man, by employing it in, or withholding it from, any parti- 
cular action."-)- 

III. Its definition. — [It may more briefly be defined, the deter- 
mination of the mind to do or not to do something which we con- 
ceive to be in our power.] 

If this were given as a strictly logical definition, it would be 
liable to this objection, that the determination of the mind is 
only another term for volition. But it ought to be observed, 
that the most simple acts of the mind do not admit of a logical 
definition. The way to form a clear notion of them is, to reflect 
attentively upon them as we feel them in ourselves. Without 
this reflection, no definition can give us a distinct conception of 
them. 

For this reason, rather than sift any definition of the will, I 
shall make some observations upon it, which may lead us to 
reflect upon it, and to distinguish it from other acts of mind, 
which, from the ambiguity of words, are apt to be confounded 
with it. 

[First, every act of will must have an object. He that wills, 
must will something ; and that which he wills is called the object 
of his volition. As a man cannot think without thinking of 
something, nor remember without remembering something, so 
neither can he will without willing something.] Every act of 
will, therefore, must have an object ; and the person who wills 
must have some conception, more or less distinct, of what he 
wills. 

By this, things done voluntarily are distinguished from things 
done merely from instinct, or merely from habit. 

%MT A healthy child, some hours after its birth, feels the 
sensation of hunger, and, if applied to the breast, sucks and 
swallows its food very perfectly. We have no reason to think, 
that, before it ever sucked, it has any conception of that complex 
operation, or how it is performed. It cannot, therefore, with 
propriety, be said, that it wills to suck. 

* " The actual exercise of that power, by directing any particular action or 
its forbearance, is that which we call volition, or willing." — Book II. chap. xxi. 
sect 5. 

| Book II. chap. xxi. sect. 15. 

i 2 



116 ESSAY II. CHAP. I. 

Numberless instances might be given of things done by ani- 
mals without any previous conception of what they are to do — 
without the intention of doing it. They act by some inward 
blind impulse, of which the efficient cause is hid from us ; and 
though there is an end evidently intended by the action, this 
intention is not in the animal, but in its Maker. 

Other things are done by habit, which cannot properly be 
called voluntary. We shut our eyes several times every minute 
while we are awake ; no man is conscious of willing this every 
time he does it. 

[A second observation is, that the immediate object of will 
must be some action of our oivn. 

By this, will is distinguished from two acts of the mind, which 
sometimes take its name, and thereby are apt to be confounded 
with it ; these are, desire and command.'] 

IV. The distinction between will and desire has been well 
explained by Mr. Locke ; yet many later writers have overlooked 
it, and have represented desire as a modification of will. 

[Desire and will agree in this, that both must have an object, 
of which we must have some conception ; and therefore both 
must be accompanied with some degree of understanding. But 
they differ in several things.] 

The object of desire may be any thing which appetite, pas- 
sion, or affection, leads us to pursue ; it may be any event 
which we think good for us, or for those to whom we are well 
affected. I may desire meat, or drink, or ease from pain : 
but to say that I will meat, or will drink, or will ease from 
pain, is not English. There is, therefore, a distinction in com- 
mon language between desire and will. And the distinction 
is, that what we will must be an action, and our own action ; 
what we desire may not be our own action, it may be no action 
at all. 

A man desires that his children may be happy, and that they 
may behave well. Their being happy is no action at all ; their 
behaving well is not his action, but theirs. 

With regard to our own actions, we may desire what we do 
not will, and will what we do not desire ; nay, what we have a 
great aversion to. 

A man a-thirst has a strong desire to drink, but, for some 
particular reason, he determines not to gratify his desire. A 
judge, from a regard to justice, and to the duty of his office, 
dooms a criminal to die, wliile, from humanity or particular affec - 
tion, he desires that he should live. A man, for health, may take a 
nauseous draught, for which he has no desire, but a great aver- 
sion. [Desire, therefore, even when its object is some action of our 
own, is only an incitement to will, but it is not volition.] The 
determination of the mind may be, not to do what we desire to 



OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING THE WILL. J 17 

do. But as desire is often accompanied by will, we are apt to 
overlook the distinction between them. 

V. Of command, will, and desire.' — [The command of a per- 
son is sometimes called his will, sometimes his desire ; but when 
these words are used properly, they signify three different acts of 
the mind. 

The immediate object of will is some action of our own ; the 
, object of a command is some action of another person, over 
whom we claim authority ; the object of desire may be no action 
at all.] 

In giving a command, all these acts concur ; and as they go 

together, it is not uncommon in language to give to one the 

name which properly belongs to another. 

, A command being a voluntary action, there must be a will to 

/ give the command : some desire is commonly the motive to that 

act of will, and the command is the effect of it. 

Perhaps it may be thought that a command is only a desire 
expressed by language, that the thing commanded should be 
done. But it is not so. For a desire may be expressed by 
language when there is no command ; and there may possibly be 
a command without any desire that the thing commanded should 
be done. There have been instances of tyrants who have laid 
grievous commands upon their subjects, in order to reap the 
penalty of their disobedience, or to furnish a pretence for their 
punishment. 

We might further observe, that a command is a social act of 
the mind. It can have no existence but by a communication of 
thought to some intelligent being ; and therefore implies a be- 
lief that there is such a being, and that we can communicate our 
thoughts to him. 

Desire and will are solitary acts, which do not imply any 
such communication or belief. 

The immediate object of volition, therefore, must be some 
action, and our own action. 

[A third observation is, That the object of our volition must 
be something which we believe to be in our power, and to depend 
upon our will.] 

A man may desire to make a visit to the moon, or to the 
planet Jupiter, but he cannot will or determine to do it ; be- 
cause he knows it is not in his power. If an insane person should 
make an attempt, his insanity must first make him believe it to 
be in his power. 

A man in his sleep may be struck with a palsy, which de- 
prives him of the power of speech ; when he awakes, he attempts 
to speak, not knowing that he has lost the power. But when 
he knows by experience that the power is gone, he ceases to 
make the effort. 

The same man, knowing that some persons have recovered 



Ug ESSAY II. CHAP. I. 

the power of speech after they had lost it by a paralytic stroke, 
may now and then make an effort. In this effort, however, 
there is not properly a will to speak, but a will to try whether 
he can speak or not. 

In like manner, a man may exert his strength to raise a weight 
which is too heavy for him. But he always does this, either 
from the belief that he can raise the weight, or for a trial whe- 
ther he can or not. It is evident, therefore, that what we will 
must be believed to be in our power, and to depend upon our 
will. 

[The next observation is, That when we will to do a thing 
immediately, the volition is accompanied with an effort to execute 
that which we will.] 

If a man wills to raise a great weight from the ground by the 
strength of his arm, he makes an effort for that purpose pro- 
portioned to the weight he determines to raise. A great weight 
requires a great effort ; a small weight a less effort. We say, 
indeed, that to raise a very small body requires no effort at all. 
But this, I apprehend, must be understood either as a figura- 
tive way of speaking, by which things very small are accounted 
as nothing ; or it is owing to our giving no attention to very 
small efforts, and therefore having no name for them. 

Great efforts, whether of body or mind, are attended with 
difficulty, and, when long continued, produce lassitude, which 
requires that they should be intermitted. This leads us to reflect 
upon them, and to give them a name. The name effort, is com- 
monly appropriated to them ; and those that are made with ease, 
and leave no sensible effect, pass without observation and with- 
out a name, though they be of the same kind, and differ only in 
degree from those to which the name is given. 

This effort we are conscious of, if we will but give attention 
to it ; and there is nothing in which we are in a more strict sense 
active. 

[The last observation is, That in all determinations of the 
mind that are of any importance, there must be something in 
the preceding state of the mind that disposes or inclines us to that 
determination, .] 

If the mind were always in a state of perfect indifference, 
without any incitement, motive, or reason, to act, or not to act, 
to act one way rather than another, our active power, having no 
end to pursue, no rule to direct its exertions, would be given in 
vain. We should either be altogether inactive, and never will 
to do any thing, or our volitions would be perfectly unmeaning 
and futile, being neither wise nor foolish, virtuous nor vicious. 

We have reason, therefore, to think, that to every being to 
whom God hath given any degree of active power, he hath also 
given some principles of action, for the direction of that power 
to the end for which it was intended. 



INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES UPON THE WILL. ^ 19 

It is evident that, in the constitution of man, there are va- 
rious principles of action suited to our state and situation. A 
particular consideration of these is the subject of the next Essay ; 
in this we are only to consider them in general, with a view to 
examine the relation they bear to volition, and how it is influ- 
enced by them. 



CHAPTER II. 

OF THE INFLUENCE OF INCITEMENTS AND MOTIVES UPON THE WILL. 

I. Instinct. — We come into the world ignorant of every thing, 
yet we must do many things in order to our subsistence and well- 
being. A new-born child may be carried in arms, and kept 
warm by his nurse, but he must suck and swallow his food for 
himself. And this must be done before he has any conception 
of sucking or swallowing, or of the manner in which they are 
to be performed. [He is led by nature to do these actions, with- 
out knowdng for what end, or what he is about. This we call 
instinct.'] 

In many cases, there is no time for voluntary determination. 
The motions must go on so rapidly, that the conception and vo- 
lition of every movement cannot keep pace with them. In some 
cases of this kind, instinct, in others habit, comes in to our aid. 

IgF When a man stumbles and loses his balance, the motion 
necessary to prevent his fall would come too late, if it were the 
consequence of thinking what is fit to be done, and making a 
voluntary effort for that purpose. He does this instinctively. 

When a man beats a drum or plays a tune, he has not time to 
direct every particular beat or stop by a voluntary determina- 
tion ; but the habit which may be acquired by exercise answers 
the purpose as well. 

[By instinct, therefore, and by habit, we do many things with- 
out any exercise either of judgment or will.] 

In other actions, the will is exerted, but without judgment. 

Suppose a man to know that, in order to live, he must eat. 
What shall he eat ? How much ? And how often ? His rea- 
son can answer none of these questions ; and therefore can give 
no direction how he should determine. Here again nature, as 
an indulgent parent, supplies the defects of his reason ; giving 
him appetite, which shows him when he is to eat, how often, and 
how much ; and taste, which informs him what he is and what 
he is not to eat. And by these principles he is much better di- 
rected than he could be, without them, by all the knowledge he 
can acquire. 

II. Judgment not necessary to instinct. — As the Author of 



120 ESSAY IT. CHAP. II. 

nature has given us some principles of action to supply the de- 
fects of our knowledge, he has given others to supply the defects 
of our wisdom and virtue. 

The natural desires, affections, and passions, which are com- 
mon to the wise and to the foolish, to the virtuous and to the 
vicious, and even to the more sagacious hrutes, serve very often 
to direct the course of human actions. By these principles, men 
may perform the most laborious duties of life, without any 
regard to duty ; and do what is proper to be done, without 
regard to propriety, $5F like a vessel that is carried on in her 
proper course by a prosperous gale, without the skill or judgment 
of those that are aboard. 

Appetite, affection, or passion, give an impulse to a certain 
action. In this impulse there is no judgment implied. It may 
be weak or strong; we can even conceive it irresistible. In the 
case of madness, it is so. Madmen have their appetites and pas- 
sions ; but they want the power of self-government ; and there- 
fore we do not impute their actions to the man, but to the 
disease. 

In actions that proceed from appetite or passion, we are pas- 
sive in part, and only in part active. They are therefore partly 
imputed to the passion ; x and if it is supposed to be irresistible, 
we do not impute them to the man at all. 

Even an American savage judges in this manner : when in a 
fit of drunkenness, he kills his friend : as soon as he comes to 
himself, he is very sorry for what he has done ; but pleads, that 
drink, and not he, was the cause. 

We conceive brute animals to have no superior principle to 
control their appetites and passions. On this account, their 
actions are not subject to law. Men are in a like state in 
infancy, in madness, and in the delirium of a fever. They have 
appetites and passions, but they want that which makes them 
moral agents, accountable for their conduct, and objects of moral 
approbation or of blame. 

In some cases, a stronger impulse of appetite or passion may 
oppose a weaker. Here also there may be determination and 
action without judgment. 

Suppose a soldier ordered to mount a breach, and certain of 
present death if he retreats : this man needs not courage to go on ; 
fear is sufficient. The certainty of present death if he retreats, 
is an overbalance to the probability of being killed if he goes on. 
The man is pushed by contrary forces, and it requires neither 
judgment nor exertion to yield to the strongest. 

A hungry dog acts by the same principle, if meat is set before 
him, with a threatening to beat him if he touch it. Hunger 
pushes him forward, fear pushes him back with more force, and 
the strongest force prevails. 




INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES UPON THE WILL, 



Thus we see, that, in many even of our voluntary actions, we 
may act from the impulse of appetite, affection, or passion, with- 
out any exercise of judgment, and much in the same manner as 
brute animals seem to act. 

III. The exercise of judgment distinct from the impulse of ap- 
petite. — [Sometimes, however, there is a calm in the mind from 
the gales of passion or appetite, and the man is left to work his 
way, in the voyage of life, without those impulses which they 
give.] Then he calmly weighs goods and evils, which are at 
too great a distance to excite any passion. He judges what is 
best upon the whole, without feeling any bias drawing him to 
one side. He judges for himself as he would do for another in 
his situation ; and the determination is wholly imputable to the 
man, and not in any degree to his passion. 

Every man come to years of understanding, who has given 
any attention to his own conduct, and to that of others, has, in 
his mind, a scale or measure of goods and evils, more or less 
exact. He makes an estimate of the value of health, of repu- 
tation, of riches, of pleasure, of virtue, of self-approbation, and 
of the approbation of his Maker. These things, and their con- 
traries, have a comparative importance in his cool and deliberate 
judgment. 

[When a man considers whether health ought to be preferred 
to bodily strength, fame to riches, — whether a good conscience 
and the approbation of his Maker, to every thing that can come 
in competition with it, — this appears to me to be an exercise of 
judgment, and not any impulse of passion or appetite.] 

Every thing worthy of pursuit must be so, either intrinsically, 
and upon its own account, or as the means of procuring some- 
thing that is intrinsically valuable. That it is by judgment that 
we discern the fitness of means for attaining an end, is self- 
evident ; and in this, I think, all philosophers agree. But that 
it is the office of judgment to appreciate the value of an end, or 
the preference due to one end above another, is not granted by 
some philosophers. 

In determining what is good or ill, and, of different goods, 
which is best, they think we must be guided, not by judgment, 
but by some natural or acquired taste, which makes us relish 
one thing and dislike another. 

Thus, if one man prefers cheese to lobsters, another lobsters 
to cheese, it is vain, say they, to apply judgment to determine 
which is right. In like manner, if one man prefers pleasure to 
virtue, another virtue to pleasure, this is a matter of taste, judg- 
ment has nothing to do in it. This seems to be the opinion of 
some philosophers. 

I cannot help being of a contrary opinion. I think we may 



Igg ESSAY II. CHAP. II. 

form a judgment, both in the question about cheese and lobsters, 
and in the more important question about pleasure and virtue. 

When one man feels a more agreeable relish in cheese, another 
in lobsters, this, I grant, requires no judgment ; it depends only 
upon the constitution of the palate. But, if we would deter- 
mine which of the two has the best taste, I think the question 
must be determined by judgment ; and that, with a small share 
of this faculty, we may give a very certain determination, to 
wit, that the two tastes are equally good, and that both of the 
persons do equally well, in preferring what suits their palate and 
their stomach. 

Nay, I apprehend, that the two persons who differ in their 
taste will, notwithstanding that difference, agree perfectly in 
their judgment, that both tastes are upon a footing of equality, 
and that neither has a just claim to preference. 

IV. Taste and judgment differ. — [Thus it appears, that, in 
this instance, the office of taste is very different from that of 
judgment ; and that men, who differ most hi taste, may agree 
perfectly in their judgment, even with respect to the tastes 
wherein they differ.] 

To make the other case parallel with this, it must be supposed 
that the man of pleasure and the man of virtue agree in their 
judgment, and that neither sees any reason to prefer the one 
course of life to the other. 

If this be supposed, I shall grant, that neither of these per- 
sons has reason to condemn the other. Each chooses according 
to his taste, in matters which his best judgment determines to 
be perfectly indifferent. 

But it is to be observed, that this supposition cannot have 
place when we speak of men, or indeed of moral agents. The 
man who is incapable of perceiving the obligation of virtue, 
when he uses his best judgment, is a man in name, but not in 
reality. He is incapable either of virtue or vice, and is not a 
moral agent. 

Even the man of pleasure, when his judgment is unbiassed, 
sees, that there are certain things which a man ought not to do, 
though he should have a taste for them. If a thief breaks into 
his house, and carries off his goods, he is perfectly convinced that 
he did wrong, and deserves punishment, although he had as 
strong a relish for the goods as he himself has for the pleasures 
he pursues. 

V. Of passion and reason. — [It is evident, that mankind, in 
all ages, have conceived two parts in the human constitution that 
may have influence upon our voluntary actions. These we call 
by the general names of passion and reason ; and we shall find, 
in all languages, names that are equivalent.] 



INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES UPON THE WILL. |£3 

Under the former, we comprehend various principles of action, 
similar to those we observe in brute animals, and in men who 
have not the use of reason. Appetites, affections, passions, are 
the names by which they are denominated ; and these names are 
not so accurately distinguished in common language, but that 
they are used somewhat promiscuously. This, however, is com- 
mon to them all, that they draw a man toward a certain object, 
without any farther view, by a kind of violence ; a violence 
which indeed may be resisted if the man is master of himself, 
but cannot be resisted without a struggle. 

Cicero's phrase for expressing their influence is, " Hominem 
hue et illuc rapiunt." Dr. Hutcheson uses a similar phrase, 
" Quibus agitatur mens et bruto quodamimpetu fertur." There 
is no exercise of reason or judgment necessary in order to feel 
their influence. 

With regard to this part (passion) of the human constitution, 
I see no difference between the vulgar and philosophers. 

As to the other part of our constitution, which is commonly 
called reason, as opposed to passion, there have been very subtle 
disputes among modern philosophers, whether it ought to be 
called reason, or be not rather some internal sense or taste. 

Whether it ought to be called reason, or by what other name, 
I do not here inquire, but what kind of influence it has upon 
our voluntary actions. 

As to this point, I think, all men must allow that this is the 
manly part of our constitution, the other the brute part. This 
operates in a calm and dispassionate manner ; a manner so like 
to judgment or reason, that even those who do not allow it to be 
called by that name, endeavour to account for its having always 
had the name, because, in the manner of its operation, it has a 
similitude to reason. 

As the similitude between this principle and reason has led 
mankind to give it that name, so the dissimilitude between it 
and passion has led them to set the two* in opposition. They 
have considered this cool principle as having an influence upon 
our actions so different from passion, that what a man does coolly 
and deliberately, without passion, is imputed solely to the man, 
whether it have merit or demerit ; whereas, what he does from 
passion is imputed in part to the passion. If the passion be 
conceived to be irresistible, the action is imputed solely to it, 
and not at all to the man. If he had power to resist, and ought 
to have resisted, we blame him for not doing his duty ; but, 
in proportion to the violence of the passion, the fault is alle- 
viated. 

By this cool principle, we judge what ends are most worthy 
to be pursued, how far every appetite and passion may be in- 
dulged, and when it ought to be resisted. 



124 ESSAY II. CHAP. II. 

It directs us, not only to resist the impulse of passion when it 
would lead us wrong, but to avoid the occasions of inflaming it ; 
ISSFlike Cyrus, who refused to see the beautiful captive prin- 
cess. In this he acted the part both of a wise and a good man ; 
firm in the love of virtue, and, at the same time, conscious of 
the weakness of human nature, and unwilling to put it to too 
severe a trial. In this case, the youth of Cyrus, the incompar- 
able beauty of his captive, and every circumstance which tended 
to inflame his desire, exalts the merit of his conduct in resist- 
ing it. 

It is in such actions that the superiority of human nature 
appears, and the specific difference between it and that of 
brutes. In them we may observe one passion combating an- 
other, and the strongest prevailing; but we perceive no calm 
principle in their constitution, that is superior to every passion, 
and able to give law to it. 

VI. The difference between these two parts of our constitu- 
tion may be farther illustrated by an instance or two wherein 
passion prevails. 

8HF If a man, upon great provocation, strike another when he 
ought to keep the peace, he blames himself for what he did, and 
acknowledges that he ought not to have yielded to his passion. 
Every other person agrees with his sober judgment :' they think he 
did wrong in yielding to his passion, when he might and ought to 
have resisted its impulse. If they thought it impossible to bear 
the provocation, they would not blame him at all ; but believing 
that it was in his power, and was his duty, they impute to him 
some degree of blame, acknowledging, at the same time, that it 
is alleviated in proportion to the provocation ; so that the tres- 
pass is imputed, partly to the man, and partly to the passion. 
But if a man deliberately conceives a design of mischief against 
his neighbour, contrives the means, and executes it, the action 
admits of no alleviation, it is perfectly voluntary, and he bears 
the whole guilt of the evil intended and done. 

If a man, by the agony of the rack, is made to disclose a 
secret of importance, with which he is intrusted, we pity him 
more than we blame him. We consider, that such is the weak- 
ness of human nature, that the resolution, even of a good man, 
might be overcome by such a trial. But if he have strength of 
mind, which even the agony of the rack could not subdue, we 
admire his fortitude as truly heroical. 

Thus, I think, it appears, that the common sense of men 
(which, in matters of common life, ought to have great autho- 
rity) has led them to distinguish two parts in the human con- 
stitution, which have influence upon our voluntary determina- 
tions. There is an irrational part, common to us with brute 
animals, consisting of appetites, affections, and passions ; and 



INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES UPON THE WILL. [^5 

there is a cool and rational part. The first, in many cases, gives 
a strong impulse, but without judgment, and without authority. 
The second is always accompanied with authority. All wisdom 
and virtue consist in following its dictates ; all vice and folly in 
disobeying them. We may resist the impulses of appetite and 
passion, not only without regret, but with self-applause and 
triumph ; but the calls of reason and duty can never be resisted 
without remorse and self-condemnation. 

VII. [The ancient philosophers agreed with the vulgar, in 
making this distinction of the principles of action.] The irra- 
tional part the Greeks called opfxr] ; Cicero calls it appetitus, tak- 
ing that word in an extensive sense, so as to include every pro- 
pensity to action which is not grounded on judgment. 

The other principle the Greeks called vovs ; Plato calls it the 
f]yr]iM)viKov, or leading principle. " Duplex enim est vis animo- 
rum atque naturae," says Cicero, "una pars in appetitu posita est, 
quae est op/x^ Greece, quae hominem hue et illuc rapit ; altera in 
ratione, quae docet, et explanat, quid faciendum fugiendumve 
sit ; ita fit ut ratio praesit, appetitus obtemperet." 

The reason of explaining this distinction here is, that these 
two principles influence the will in different ways. Their influ- 
ence differs, not in degree only, but in kind. This difference 
we feel, though it may be difficult to find words to express it. 
We may perhaps more easily form a notion of it by a similitude. 
It is one thing to push a man from one part of the room to 
another : it is a thing of a very different nature to use arguments 
to persuade him to leave his place, and go to another. He may 
yield to the force which pushes him, without any exercise of his 
rational faculties ; nay, he must yield to it, if he do not oppose 
an equal or a greater force. His liberty is impaired in some 
degree ; and, if he has not power sufficient to oppose, his liberty 
is quite taken away, and the motion cannot be imputed to him 
at all. The influence of appetite or passion seems to me to be 
very like to this. If the passion be supposed irresistible, we 
impute the action to it solely, and not to the man. If he had 
power to resist, but yields after a struggle, we impute the action 
partly to the man and partly to the passion. 

If we attend to the other case, when the man is only urged 
by arguments to leave his place, this resembles the operation of 
the cool or rational principle. It is evident that, whether he 
yields to the arguments or not, the determination is wholly his 
own act, and is entirely to be imputed to him. Arguments, 
whatever be the degree of their strength, diminish not a man's 
liberty ; they may produce a cool conviction of what we ought to 
do, and they can do no more. But appetite and passion give an im- 
pulse to act and impair liberty, in proportion to their strength. 
With most men, the impulse of passion is more effectual than 



126 ESSAY II. CHAP. III. 

bare conviction ; and, on this account, orators, who would per- 
suade, find it necessary to address the passions, as well as to 
convince the understanding ; and, in all systems of rhetoric, 
these two have been considered as different intentions of the 
orator, and to be accomplished by different means. 



CHAPTER III. 

OF OPERATIONS OF MIND WHICH MAY BE CALLED VOLUNTARY. 

I. Of attention, deliberation, and resolution. — The faculties of 
understanding and will are easily distinguished in thought, but 
very rarely, if ever, disjoined in operation. 

In most, perhaps in all the operations of mind for which we 
have names in language, both faculties are employed, and we 
are both intellective and active. 

Whether it be possible that intelligence may exist without 
some degree of activity, or impossible, is perhaps beyond the 
reach of our faculties to determine ; but I apprehend that, in 
fact, they are always conjoined in the operations of our minds. 

It is probable, I think, that there is some degree of activity 
in those operations which we refer to the understanding ; accord- 
ingly, they have always, and in all languages, been expressed 
by active verbs ; as, 1 see, I hear, I remember, I apprehend, I 
judge, I reason. And it is certain that every act of will must 
be accompanied by some operation of the understanding ; for he 
that wills must apprehend what he wills, and apprehension be- 
longs to the understanding. 

The operations I am to consider in this chapter, I think, have 
commonly been referred to the understanding ; but we shall find 
that the will has so great a share in them, that they may, with 
propriety, be called voluntary. They are these three, — atten- 
tion, deliberation, and fixed purpose, or resolution. 

[Attention may be given to any object, either of sense or of 
intellect, in order to form a distinct notion of it, or to discover 
its nature, its attributes, or its relations. And so great is the 
effect of attention, that, without it, it is impossible to acquire or 
retain a distinct notion of any object of thought.] 

If a man hear a discourse without attention, what does he 
carry away with him ? If he see St. Peter's or the Vatican 
without attention, what account can he give of it ? While two 
persons are engaged in interesting discourse, the clock strikes 
within their hearing, to which they give no attention : what is 
the consequence ? The next minute they know not whether the 
clock struck or not. Yet their ears were not shut. The usual 
impression was made upon the organ of hearing, and upon the 



OF VOLUNTARY OPERATIONS. \CT[ 

auditory nerve and brain ; but from inattention the sound either 
was not perceived, or passed in the twinkling of an eye, without 
leaving the least vestige in the memory. 

A man sees not what is before his eyes when his mind is 
occupied about another object. In the tumult of a battle, a 
man may be shot through the body without knowing anything 
of the matter, till he discover it by the loss of blood or of 
strength. 

The most acute sensation of pain may be deadened, if the at 
tention can be vigorously directed to another object. A gen- 
tleman of my acquaintance, in the agony of a fit of the gout 
used to call for the chess-board. As he was fond of that game 
he acknowledged that, as the game advanced and drew his atten- 
tion, the sense of pain abated, and the time seemed much shorter. 

g§F Archimedes, it is said, being intent upon a mathematical 
proposition, when Syracuse was taken by the Romans, knew not 
the calamity of the city, till a Roman soldier broke in upon his 
retirement, and gave him a deadly wound ; on which he lamented 
only that he had lost a fine demonstration. 

It is needless to multiply instances to show, that when one 
faculty of the mind is intensely engaged about any object, the 
other faculties are laid, as it were, fast asleep. 

II. Of genius. — It may be farther observed, that [if there be 
any thing that can be called genius, in matters of mere judgment 
and reasoning, it seems to consist chiefly in being able to give 
that attention to the subject which keeps it steady in the mind, 
till we can survey it accurately on all sides.] 

There is a talent of imagination, which bounds from earth to 
heaven, and from heaven to earth, in a moment. This may be 
favourable to wit and imagery ; but the powers of judging and 
reasoning depend chiefly upon keeping the mind to a clear and 
steady view of the subject. 

Sir Isaac Newton, to one who complimented him upon the 
force of genius, which had made such improvements in mathe- 
matics and natural philosophy, is said to have made this reply, 
which was both modest and judicious, that, if he had made any 
improvements in those sciences, it was owing more to patient 
attention than to any other talent. 

Whatever be the effects which attention may produce, (and 
I apprehend they are far beyond what is commonly believed,) it 
is for the most part in our power. 

Every man knows that he can turn his attention to this sub- 
ject or to that, for a longer or a shorter time, and with more or 
less intenseness, as he pleases. It is a voluntary act, and depends 
upon his will. 

But what was before observed of the will in general, is appli- 
cable to this particular exertion of it, that the mind is rarely in 



\i 



123 ESSAY II. CHAP. III. 

a state of indifference, left to turn its attention to the object 
which to reason appears most deserving of it. There is, for the 
most part, a bias to some particular object more than to any 
other ; and this not from any judgment of its deserving our at- 
tention more, but from some impulse or propensity, grounded 
on nature or habit. 

It is well known, that things new and uncommon, things 
grand, and things that are beautiful, draw our attention, not in 
proportion to the interest we have, or think we have in them, 
but in a much greater proportion. 

Whatever moves our passions or affections draws our attention, 
very often, more than we wish. 

You desire a man not to think of an unfortunate event which 
torments him. It admits of no remedy. The thought of it 
answers no purpose but to keep the wound bleeding. He is 
perfectly convinced of all you say. He knows that he would 
not feel the affliction, if he could only not think of it ; yet he 
hardly thinks of any thing else. Strange ! when happiness and 
misery stand before him, and depend upon his choice, he chooses 
misery, and rejects happiness with his eyes open ! 

Yet he wishes to be happy, as all men do. How shall we re- 
concile this contradiction between his judgment and his conduct ? 
The account of it seems to me to be this : the afflicting event 
draws his attention so strongly, by a natural and blind force, that 
he either hath not the power, or hath not the vigour of mind, 
to resist its impulse, though he knows that to yield to it is 
misery, without any good to balance it. 

Acute bodily pain draws our attention, and makes it very 
difficult to attend to any thing else, even when attention to the 
pain serves no other purpose but to aggravate it tenfold. 

The man who played a game at chess in the agony of the 
gout, to engage his attention to another object, acted the rea- 
sonable part, and consulted his real happiness ; but it required 
a great effort to give that attention to his game which was ne- 
cessary to produce the effect intended by it. 

Even when there is no particular object that draws away 
our attention, there is a desultoviness of thought in man, and 
in some more ' than in others, which makes it very difficult to 
give that fixed attention to important objects which reason re- 
quires. 

It appears, I think, from what has been said, that the atten- 
tion we give to objects is for the most part voluntary ; that a 
great part of wisdom and virtue consists in giving a proper 
direction to our attention ; and that however reasonable this 
appears to the judgment of every man, yet, in some cases, it 
requires an effort of self-command no less than the most heroic 
virtues. 



OP VOLUNTARY OPERATIONS. \%Q 

III. Deliberation. — [Another operation that may be called 
voluntary, is deliberation about what we are to do or to for- 
bear.] 

Every man knows that it is in his power to deliberate or 
not to deliberate about any part of his conduct ; to deliberate 
for a shorter, or a longer time, more carelessly, or more seri- 
ously ; and when he has reason to suspect that his affection may 
bias his judgment, he may either honestly use the best means 
in his power to form an impartial judgment, or he may yield 
to his bias, and only seek arguments to justify what inclination 
leads him to do. In all these points, he determines, he wills, 
the right or the wrong. 

IY. [The general rules of deliberation are perfectly evident to 
reason when we consider them abstractly. They are axioms in 
morals.] 

(1) We ought not to deliberate in cases that are perfectly clear. 
— [No man deliberates whether he ought to choose happiness or 
misery. No honest man deliberates whether he shall steal his 
neighbour's property.] [(2) When the case is not clear, when it 
is of importance, and when there is time for deliberation, we 
ought to deliberate with more or less care, in proportion to the 
importance of the action.] [ (3) In deliberation, we ought to 
weigh things in an even balance, and to allow to every conside- 
ration the weight which, in sober judgment, we think it ought to 
have, and no more. This is to deliberate impartially.] [ (4) Our 
deliberation should be brought to an issue in due time, so that 
we may not lose the opportunity of acting while we ^liberate.] 

The axioms of Euclid do not appear to me to have a greater 
degree of self-evidence, than these rules of deliberation. And 
as far as a man acts according to them, his heart approves of 
him, and he has confidence of the approbation of the Searcher 
of hearts. 

But though the manner in which we ought to deliberate be 
evident to reason, it is not always easy to follow it. Our appe- 
tites, our affections, and passions, oppose all deliberation, but 
that which is employed in finding the means of their gratifica- 
tion. Avarice may lead to deliberate upon the ways of making 
money, but it does not distinguish between the honest and the 
dishonest. 

We ought surely to deliberate how far every appetite and 
passion may be indulged, and what limits should be set to it. 
But our appetites and passions push us on to the attainment of 
their objects, in the shortest road, and without delay. 

Thus it happens, that, if we yield to their impulse, we shall 
often transgress those rules of deliberation which reason ap- 
proves. In this conflict between the dictates of reason and the 
blind impulse of passion, we must voluntarily determine. When 

K 



V 



130 ESSAY II. CHAP. III. 

we take part with our reason, though in opposition to passion, 
we approve of our own conduct. 

[What we call a fault of ignorance,-!^ always owing to the 
want of due deliberation. When we do not take due pains to he 
rightly informed, there is a fault, not indeed in acting according 
to the light we have, but in not using the proper means to get 
light. For if we judge wrong, after using the proper means of 
information, there is no fault in acting according to that wrong 
judgment ; the error is invincible.] 

The natural consequence of deliberation on any part of our 
conduct, is a determination how we shall act ; and if it is not 
brought to this issue it is lost labour. 

V. [There are two cases in which a determination may take 
place ; (1) when the opportunity of putting it in execution is 
present, and (2) when it is at a distance. ] 

When the opportunity is present, the determination to act is 
immediately followed by the action. Thus, if a man determine 
to rise and walk, he immediately does it, unless he is hindered 
by force, or has lost the power of walking. And if he sit still 
when he has power to walk, we conclude infallibly that he has 
not determined or willed to walk immediately. 

Our determination or will to act is not always the result of 
deliberation ; it may be the effect of some passion or appetite, 
without any judgment interposed. And when judgment is inter- 
posed, we may determine and act either according to that judg- 
ment, or contrary to it. 

When a man sits down hungry to dine, he eats from appetite, 
very often without exercising his judgment at all ; nature in- 
vites, and he obeys the call, as the ox, or the horse, or as an 
infant does. 

When we converse with persons whom we love or respect, we 
say and do civil things merely from affection or from respect. 
They flow spontaneously from the heart, without requiring any 
judgment. In such cases, we act as brute-animals do, or as chil- 
dren before the use of reason. We feel an impulse in our na- 
ture, and we yield to it. 

When a man eats merely from appetite, he does not consider 
the pleasure of eating, or its tendency to health. These consi- 
derations are not in his thoughts. But we can suppose a man 
who eats with a view to enjoy the pleasure of eating. Such a 
man reasons and judges. He will take care to use the proper 
means of procuring an appetite. He will be a critic in tastes, 
and make nice discriminations. This man uses his rational facul- 
ties even in eating. And however contemptible this application 
of them may be, it is an exercise of which, I apprehend, brute- 
animals are not capable. 

In like manner, a man may say or do civil things to another, 



OF VOLUNTARY OPERATIONS. l£l 

not from affection, but in order to serve some end by it, or be- 
cause he thinks it his duty. 

To act with a view to some distant interest, or to act from a 
sense of duty, seems to be proper to man as a reasonable being ; 
but to act merely from passion, from appetite, or from affection, 
is common to him with the brute -animals. In the last case there 
is no judgment required, but in the first there is. 

To act against what one judges to be for his real good upon 
the whole, is folly. To act against what he judges to be his duty, 
is immorality. It cannot be denied, that there are too many 
instances of both in human life. " Video meliora proboque, 
deteriora sequor," — " I see and approve of better things, I fol- 
low worse," — is neither an impossible nor an unfrequent case. 

While a man does what he really thinks wisest and best to be 
done, the more his appetites, his affections, and passions, draw him 
the contrary way, the more he approves of his own conduct, and 
the more he is entitled to the approbation of every rational being. 

VI. Resolution. — [The third operation of mind I mentioned, 
which may be called voluntary, is, a fixed purpose, or resolution, 
with regard to our future conduct,] 

This naturally takes place, when any action, or course of 
action, about which we have deliberated, is not immediately to 
be executed, the occasion of acting being at some distance. 

[A fixed purpose to do, some time hence, something which we 
believe shall then be in our power, is strictly and properly a 
determination of will, no less than a determination to do it 
instantly.] Every definition of volition agrees to it. Whether 
the opportunity of doing what we have determined to do be 
present or at some distance, is an accidental circumstance which 
does not affect the nature of the determination, and no good rea- 
son can be assigned why it should not be called volition in the 
one case, as well as in the other. A purpose or resolution, there- 
fore, is truly and properly an act of will. 

Our purposes are of two kinds. We may call the one parti- 
cular, the other general. By a particular purpose, I mean that 
which has for its object an individual action, limited to one time 
and place ; by a general purpose, that of a course or train of 
action, intended for some general end, or regulated by some 
general rule. 

Thus, I may purpose to go to London next winter. When 
the time comes, 1 execute my purpose, if I continue of the same 
mind ; and the purpose, when executed, is no more. Thus it is 
with every particular purpose. 

A general purpose may continue for life ; and, after many 
particular actions have been done in consequence of it, may 
remain and regulate future actions. 

Thus, a young man proposes to follow the profession of law, 

k 2 



132 ESSAY II. CHAP. Ill 

of medicine, or of theology. This general purpose directs the 
course of his reading and study. It directs him in the choice of 
his company and companions, and even of his diversions. It 
determines his travels and the place of his abode. It has influ- 
ence upon his dress and manners, and a considerable effect in 
forming his character. 

There are other fixed purposes which have a still greater effect 
in forming the character. I mean such as regard our moral 
conduct. 

Suppose a man to have exercised his intellectual and moral 
faculties, so far as to have distinct notions of justice and injus- 
tice, and of the consequences of both, and, after due delibera- 
tion, to have formed a fixed purpose to adhere inflexibly to 
justice, and never to handle the wages of iniquity. 

Is not this the man whom we should call a just man ? We 
consider the moral virtues as inherent in the mind of a good man, 
even when there is no opportunity of exercising them. And 
what is it in the mind which we can call the virtue of justice, 
when it is not exercised ? It can be nothing but a fixed purpose, 
or determination, to act according to the rules of justice, when 
there is opportunity. 

The Roman law defined justice, a steady and perpetual will 
to give to every man his due. When the opportunity of doing 
justice is not present, this can mean nothing else than a steady 
purpose, which is very properly called will. Such a purpose, if 
it is steady, will infallibly produce just conduct ; for every known 
transgression of justice demonstrates a change of purpose, at least 
for that time. 

What has been said of justice, may be so easily applied to 
every other moral virtue, that it is unnecessary to give instances. 
They are all fixed purposes of acting according to a certain rule. 

VII. The virtue and affection of benevolence different. — By 
this, the virtues may be easily distinguished, in thought at least, 
from natural affections that bear the same name. Thus, bene- 
volence is a capital virtue, which, though not so necessary to the 
being of society, is entitled to a higher degree of approbation 
than even justice. But there is a natural affection of benevo- 
lence, common to good and bad men, to the virtuous and to the 
vicious. How shall these be distinguished ? 

In practice, indeed, we cannot distinguish them in other men, 
and with difficulty in ourselves ; but in theory, nothing is more 
easy. [The virtue of berievolence is a fixed purpose or resolution 
to do good when we have opportunity, from a conviction that it 
is right, and is our duty. The affection of benevolence is a pro- 
pensity to do good, from natural constitution or habit, without 
regard to rectitude or duty.] 

There are good tempers and bad, which are a part of the con- 



OF VOLUNTARY OPERATIONS. 133 

stitution of the man, and are really involuntary, though they 
often lead to voluntary actions. A good natural temper is not 
virtue, nor is a bad one vice. Hard would it be indeed to think, 
that a man should be born under a decree of reprobation, be- 
cause he has the misfortune of a bad natural temper. 

The physiognomist saw, in the features of Socrates, the signa- 
tures of many bad dispositions, which that good man acknow- 
ledged he felt within him ; but the triumph of his virtue was the 
greater in having conquered them. 

In men who have no fixed rules of conduct, no self-govern- 
ment, the natural temper is variable by numberless accidents. 
The man who is full of affection and benevolence this hour, when 
a cross accident happens to ruffle him, or perhaps when an east- 
erly wind blows, feels a strange revolution in his temper. The 
kind and benevolent affections give place to the jealous and ma- 
lignant, which are as readily indulged in their turn, and for the 
same reason, because he feels a propensity to indulge them. 

We may observe, that men who have exercised their rational 
powers are generally governed in their opinions by fixed prin- 
ciples of belief ; and men who have made the greatest advance in 
self-government are governed, in their practice, by general fixed 
purposes. Without the former, there would be no steadiness and 
consistence in our belief; nor without the latter, in our conduct. 

When a man is come to years of understanding ; from his 
education, from his company, or from his study, he forms to 
himself a set of general principles, a creed, which governs his 
judgment in particular points that occur. 

If new evidence be laid before him, which tends to overthrow 
any of his received principles, it requires in him a great degree 
of candour and love of truth to give it an impartial examination, 
and to form a new judgment. Most men, when they are fixed 
in their principles, upon what they account sufficient evidence, 
can hardly be drawn into a new and serious examination of them. 

They get a habit of believing them, which is strengthened by 
repeated acts, and remains immoveable, even when the evidence 
upon which their belief was at first grounded is forgot. 

It is this that makes conversions, either from religious or poli- 
tical principles, so difficult. 

A mere prejudice of education sticks fast, as a proposition of 
Euclid does with a man who hath long ago forgot the proof. 
Both indeed are upon a similar footing. We rest in both, be- 
cause we have long done so, and think we received them at first 
upon good evidence, though that evidence be quite forgot. 

When we know a man's principles, we judge by them, rather 
than by the degree of his understanding, how he will determine 
in any point which is connected with them. 

Thus, [the judgment of most men who judge for themselves is 



134 ESSAY II. CHAP. III. 

governed by fixed principles ; and, I apprehend, that the con- 
duct of most men who have any self-government, and any con- 
sistency of conduct, is governed by fixed purposes.] 

A man of breeding may, in his natural temper, be proud, pas- 
sionate, revengeful, and in his morals a very bad man ; yet, in 
good company, he can stifle every passion that is inconsistent 
with good breeding, and be humane, modest, complaisant, even 
to those whom in his heart he despises or hates. Why is this 
man, who can command all his passions before company, a slave 
to them in private ? The reason is plain : he has a fixed resolu- 
tion to be a man of breeding, but hath no such resolution to 'be 
a man of virtue. He hath combated his most violent passions a 
thousand times before he became master of them in company. 
The same resolution and perseverance would have given him the 
command of them when alone. 

A fixed resolution retains its influence upon the conduct, even 
when the motives to it are not in view, in the same manner as a 
fixed principle retains its influence upon the belief, when the 
evidence of it is forgot. The former may be called a habit of 
the will, the latter a habit of the understanding. By such habits 
chiefly, men are governed in their opinions and in their practice. 

A man who has no general fixed purposes may be said, as 
Pope says of most women (I hope unjustly), to have no character 
at all. He will be honest or dishonest, benevolent or malicious, 
compassionate or cruel, as the tide of his passions and affections 
drives him. This, however, I believe, is the case of but a few 
in advanced life, and these, with regard to conduct, the weakest 
and most contemptible of the species. 

A man of some constancy may change his general purposes 
once or twice in life, seldom more. From the pursuit of pleasure 
in early life, he may change to that of ambition, and from ambi- 
tion to avarice. But every man who uses his reason in the con- 
duct of life, will have some end, to which he gives a preference 
above all others. To this he steers his course ; his projects and 
his actions will be regulated by it. Without this, there would 
be no consistency in his conduct. He would be like a ship in 
the ocean, which is bound to no port, under no government, but 
left to the mercy of winds and tides. 

We observed before, that [there are moral rules respecting 
the attention we ought to give to objects, and respecting our deli- 
berations, which are no less evident than mathematical axioms. 
The same thing may be observed with respect to our fixed pur- 
poses, whether particular or general.] 

Is it not self-evident, that, after due deliberation, we ought to 
resolve upon that conduct, or that course of conduct, which, to 
our sober judgment, appears to be best and most approvable ? — 
that we ought to be firm and steady in adhering to such resolu- 



COROLLARIES. . \ 35 

tions, while we are persuaded that they are right ; but open to 
conviction, and ready to change our course, when we have good 
evidence that it is wrong. 

Fickleness, inconstancy, facility, on the one hand ; wilfulness, 
inflexibility, and obstinacy, on the other, are moral qualities, 
respecting our purposes, which every one sees to be wrong. A 
manly firmness, grounded upon rational conviction, is the pro- 
per mean which every man approves and reveres. 



CHAPTER IV, 



COROLLARIES. 



I. Of transient and momentary acts of the will. — From what 
has been said concerning the will, it appears, [first, That, as 
some acts of the will are transient and momentary, so others are 
permanent, and may continue for a long time, or even through 
the whole course of our rational life.] 

When I will to stretch out my hand, that will is at an end as 
soon as the action is done. It is an act of the will which begins 
and ends in a moment. But when I will to attend to a mathe- 
matical proposition, to examine the demonstration and the con- 
sequences that may be drawn from it, this will may continue for 
hours. It must continue as long as my attention continues ; 
for no man attends to a mathematical proposition longer than he 
wills. 

The same thing may be said of deliberation, with regard, 
either to any point of conduct, or with regard to any general 
course of conduct. We will to deliberate as long as we do 
deliberate ; and that may be for days or for weeks. 

A purpose or resolution, which we have shown to be an act 
of the will, may continue for a great part of life, or for the 
whole, after we are of age to form a resolution. 

Thus, a merchant may resolve, that, after he has made such a 
fortune by traffic, he will give it up, and retire to a country 
life. He may continue this resolution for thirty or forty years, 
and execute it at last ; but he continues it no longer than he 
wills, for he may at any time change his resolution. 

[There are, therefore, acts of the will which are not transient 
and momentary, which may continue long, and grow into a habit.] 
This deserves the more to be observed, because a very eminent 
philosopher has advanced a contrary principle, to wit, That 
all the acts of the will are transient and momentary ; and from 
that principle has drawn very important conclusions with regard 
to what constitutes the moral character of man. 



igg ESSAY II. CHAP. IV. 

II. [A second corollary is, That nothing in a man, wherein 
the will is not concerned, can justly be accounted either virtuous 
or immoral.] 

That no blame can be imputed to a man for what is altogether 
involuntary, is so evident in itself, that no arguments can make 
it more evident. The practice of all criminal courts, in all 
enlightened nations, is founded upon it. 

If it should be thought an objection to this maxim, that, by 
the laws of all nations, children often suffer for the crimes of 
parents, in which they had no hand, the answer is easy. 

Yoy, first, Such is the connexion between parents and chil- 
dren, that the punishment of a parent must hurt his children 
whether the law will or not. If a man is fined, or imprisoned ; 
if he loses life, or limb, or estate, or reputation, by the hand of 
justice, his children suffer by necessary consequence. Secondly, 
When laws intend to appoint any punishment of innocent chil- 
dren for the father's crime, such laws are either unjust, or they 
are to be considered as acts of police, and not of jurisprudence, 
and are intended as an expedient to deter parents more effectu- 
ally from the commission of the crime. The innocent children, 
in this case, are sacrified to the public good, in like manner as, 
to prevent the spreading of the plague, the sound are shut up 
with the infected in a house or ship that has the infection. 

figr By the law of England, if a man is killed by an ox goring 
him, or a cart running over him, though there be no fault or 
neglect in the owner, the ox or the cart is a deodand, and is 
confiscated to the church. The legislature surely did not intend 
to punish the ox as a criminal, far less the cart. The intention 
evidently was, to inspire the people with a sacred regard to the 
life of man. 

When the parliament of Paris, with a similar intention, 
ordained the house in which Ravilliac* was born, to be razed to 
the ground, and never to be rebuilt, it would be great weakness 
to conclude, that that wise judicature intended to punish the 
house. 

If any judicature should, in any instance, find a man guilty, 
and an object of punishment, for what they allowed to be alto- 
gether involuntary, all the world would condemn them as men 
who knew nothing of the first and most fundamental rules of 
justice. 

I have endeavoured to show, that, in our attention to objects, 
in order to form a right judgment of them ; in our deliberation 
about particular actions, or about general rules of conduct ; in 
our purposes and resolutions, as well as in the execution of 
them, the will has a principal share. If any man could be found, 
who, in the whole course of his life, had given due attention to 

* The assassin of Henri Quatre. 



COROLLARIES. 



137 

things that concern him, had deliberated duly and impartially 
about his conduct, had formed his resolutions, and executed 
them according to his best judgment and capacity, surely such 
a man might hold up his face before God and man, and plead 
innocence. He must be acquitted by the impartial Judge, 
whatever his natural temper was, whatever his passions and affec- 
tions, as far as they were involuntary. 

III. [A third corollary, That all virtuous habits, when we 
distinguish them from virtuous actions, consist in fixed purposes 
of acting according to the rules of virtue, as often as we have 
opportunity.] 

We can conceive in a man a greater or a less degree of steadi- 
ness to his purposes or resolutions ; but that the general tenor 
of his conduct should be contrary to them, is impossible. 

The man who has a determined resolution to do his duty in 
every instance, and who adheres steadily to his resolution, is a 
perfect man. The man who has a determined purpose of carry- 
ing on a course of action which he knows to be wrong, is a hard- 
ened offender. Between these extremes there are many inter- 
mediate degrees of virtue and vice. 



ESSAY III. 

OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 
PART I. 

OF THE MECHANICAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 



CHAPTER I. 

OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION IN GENERAL. 

I. Actions of men classified, — In the strict philosophical 
sense, nothing can be called the action of a man, but what he 
previously conceived and willed or determined to do. In morals, 
we commonly employ the word in this sense, and never impute 
any thing to a man as his doing, in which his will was not inter- 
posed. But when moral imputation is not concerned, we call 
many things actions of the man, which he neither previously con- 
ceived nor willed. [Hence the actions of men have been distin- 
guished into three classes, the voluntary, the involuntary , and 
the mixed. By the last are meant such actions as are under the 
command of the will, but are commonly performed without any 
interposition of will.] 

We cannot avoid using the word action in this popular sense, 
without deviating too much from the common use of language ; 
and it is in this sense we use it when we inquire into the princi- 
ples of action in the human mind. 

By principles of action, I understand every thing that incites 
us to act. 

If there were no incitements to action, active power would be 
given us in vain. Having no motive to direct our active exer- 
tions, the mind would, in all cases, be in a state of perfect indif- 
ference, to do this or that, or nothing at all. The active power 
would either not be exerted at all, or its exertions would be per- 
fectly unmeaning and frivolous, neither wise nor foolish, neither 
good nor bad. To every action that is of the smallest import- 
ance, there must be some incitement, some motive, some reason. 

II. Knowledge of the principles of action important. — It is 
therefore a most important part of the philosophy of the human 
mind, to have a distinct and just view of the various principles 



OF THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. J 39 

of action which the Author of our being hath planted in our 
nature, to arrange them properly, and to assign to every one its 
rank. 

[By this it is, that we may discover the end of our being, and 
the part which is assigned us upon the theatre of life.] In this 
part of the human constitution, the noblest work of God that 
falls within our notice, we may discern most clearly the charac- 
ter of him who made us, and how he would have us to employ 
that active power which he hath given us. 

I cannot without great diffidence enter upon this subject, 
observing that almost every author of reputation, who has given 
attention to it, has a system of his own ; and that no man has 
been so happy as to give general satisfaction to those who came 
after him. 

There is a branch of knowledge much valued, and very justly, 
which we call knowledge of the world, knowledge of mankind, 
knowledge of human nature : this, I think, consists in knowing 
from what principles men generally act ; and it is commonly the 
fruit of natural sagacity joined with experience. 

A man of sagacity, who has had occasion to deal in interest- 
ing matters, with a great variety of persons of different age, sex, 
rank, and profession, learns to judge what may be expected from 
men in given circumstances ; and how they may be most effec- 
tually induced to act the part which he desires. To know this 
is of so great importance to men in active life, that it is called 
knowing men, and knowing human nature. 

This knowledge may be of considerable use to a man who 
would speculate upon the subject we have proposed, but is not, 
by itself, sufficient for that purpose. 

III. Difficulties attending an investigation of the principles of 
human actions. — The man of the world conjectures, perhaps with 
great probability, how a man will act in certain given circum- 
stances ; and this is all he wants to know. [To enter into a 
detail of the various principles which influence the actions of 
men, to give them distinct names, to define them, and to ascer- 
tain their different provinces, is the business of a philosopher, 
and not of a man of the world; and, indeed, it is a matter 
attended with great difficulty from various causes.] 

First, On account of the great number of active principles that 
influence the actions of men. 

Man has, not without reason, been called an epitome of the 
universe. His body, by which his mind is greatly affected, being 
a part of the material system, is subject to all the laws of inani- 
mate matter. During some part of his existence, his state is 
very like that of a vegetable. He rises, by imperceptible 
degrees, to the animal, and, at last, to the rational life, and has 
the principles that belong to all. 



140 ESSAY III.— PART I. CHAP. I. 

Another cause of trie difficulty of tracing trie various principles 
of action in man, is, That the same action, nay, the same course 
and train of action, may proceed from very different principles. 

Men who are fond of a hypothesis, commonly seek no other 
proof of its truth, but that it serves to account for the appearances 
which it is brought to explain. This is a very slippery kind of 
proof in every part of philosophy, and never to be trusted ; but 
least of all, when the appearances to be accounted for are human 
actions. 

Most actions proceed from a variety of principles concurring 
in their direction ; and according as we are disposed to judge 
favourably or unfavourably of the person, or of human nature in 
general, we impute them wholly to the best, or wholly to the 
worst, overlooking others which had no small share in them. 

[The principles from which men act can be discovered only in 
these two ways ; by attention to the conduct of other men, or by 
attention to our own conduct, and to what we feel in ourselves. 
There is much uncertainty in the former, and much difficulty in 
the latter.] 

Men differ much in their characters ; and we can observe the 
conduct of a few only of the species. Men differ not only from 
other men, but from themselves at different times, and on different 
occasions ; according as they are in the company of their 
superiors, inferiors, or equals ; according as they are in the eye 
of strangers, or of their familiars only, or in the view of no 
human eye ; according as they are in good or bad fortune, or in 
good or bad humour. We see but a small part of the actions of 
our most familiar acquaintance ; and what we see may lead us to 
a probable conjecture, but can give no certain knowledge of the 
principles from which they act. 

A man may, no doubt, know with certainty the principles from 
which he himself acts, because he is conscious of them. But 
this knowledge requires an attentive reflection upon the opera- 
tions of his own mind, which is very rarely to be found. It is 
perhaps more easy to find a man who has formed a just notion of 
the character of man in general, or of those of his familiar 
acquaintance, than one who has a just notion of his own cha- 
racter. 

Most men, through pride and self-flattery, are apt to think 
themselves better than they really are ; and some, perhaps from 
melancholy, or from false principles of religion, are led to think 
themselves worse than they really are. 

IV. Third cause of the difficulty of tracing the principles of 
action in man. — It requires, therefore, a very accurate and 
impartial examination of a man's own heart, to be able to form 
a distinct notion of the various principles which influence his 
conduct. [That this is a matter of great difficulty, we may judge 



OP THE PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. \^ 

from the very different and contradictory systems of philosophers 
upon this subject, from the earliest ages to this day.] 

During the age of Greek philosophy, the Platonist, the Peri- 
patetic, the Stoic, the Epicurean, had each his own system. In 
the dark ages, the Schoolmen and the Mystics had systems dia- 
metrically opposite ; and, since the revival of learning, no con- 
troversy hath been more keenly agitated, especially among British 
philosophers, than that about the principles of action in the 
human constitution. 

They have determined, to the satisfaction of the learned, the 
forces by which the planets and comets traverse the boundless 
regions of space ; but have not been able to determine, with any 
degree of unanimity, the forces which every man is conscious of 
in himself, and by which his conduct is directed. 

[Some admit no principle but self-love ; others resolve all into 
love of the pleasures of sense, variously* modified by the associa- 
tion of ideas ; others admit disinterested benevolence along with 
self-love ; others reduce all to reason and passion ; others to pas- 
sion alone ; nor is there less variety about the number and distri- 
bution of the passions.] 

The names we give to the various principles of action, have so 
little precision, even in the best and purest writers in every lan- 
guage, that, on this account, there is no small difficulty in giving 
them names, and arranging them properly. 

The words, appetite, passion, affection, interest, reason, cannot 
be said to have one definite signification. They are taken some- 
times in a larger, and sometimes in a more limited sense. The 
same principle is sometimes called by one of those names, some- 
times by another ; and principles of a very different nature are 
often called by the same name. 

To remedy this confusion of names, it might perhaps seem 
proper to invent new ones. But there are so few entitled to this 
privilege, that I shall not lay claim to it ; but shall endeavour to 
class the various principles of human action as distinctly as I am 
able, and to point out their specific differences ; giving them such 
names as may deviate from the common use of the words as 
little as possible. 

There are some principles of action which require no atten- 
tion, no deliberation, no will. These, for distinction's sake, we 
shall call mechanical. Another class we may call animal, as they 
seem common to man with other animals. A third class we may 
call rational, being proper to a man as a rational creature. 



142 ESSAY III.— PART I. CHAP. II. 



CHAPTER II. 

OF INSTINCT. 

I. Of instinct in man. — The mechanical principles of action 
may, I think, be reduced to two species, instincts and habits. 

[By instinct, I mean a natural blind impulse to certain actions, 
without having any end in view, without deliberation, and very 
often without any conception of what we do.] 

ISF Thus a man breathes while he is alive, by the alternate 
contraction and relaxation of certain muscles, by which the 
chest, and of consequence the lungs, are contracted and dilated. 
There is no reason to think that an infant new-born knows that 
breathing is necessary to life in its new state, that he knows how 
it must be performed, or even that he has any thought or concep- 
tion of that operation ; yet he breathes as soon as he is born, with 
perfect regularity, as if he had been taught, and got the habit by 
long practice. 

By the same kind of principle, a new-born child, when its 
stomach is emptied, and nature has brought milk into the 
mother's breast, sucks and swallows its food as perfectly as if it 
knew the principles of that operation, and had got the habit of 
working according to them. 

Sucking and swallowing are very complex operations. Ana- 
tomists describe about thirty pairs of muscles that must be 
employed in every draught. Of those muscles, every one must 
be served by its proper nerve, and can make no exertion but by 
some influence communicated by the nerve. The exertion of all 
those muscles and nerves is not simultaneous. They must suc- 
ceed each other in a certain order, and their order is no less 
necessary than the exertion itself. 

This regular train of operations is carried on according to the 
nicest rules of art, by the infant, who has neither art, nor sci- 
ence, nor experience, nor habit. 

That the infant feels the uneasy sensation of hunger, I admit ; 
and that it sucks no longer than till this sensation be removed. 
But who informed it that this uneasy sensation might be re- 
moved, or by what means ? That it knows nothing of this is 
evident ; for it jvill as readily suck a finger, or a bit of stick, as 
the nipple. 

By a like principle it is, that infants cry when they are pained 
or hurt ; that they are afraid when left alone, especially in the 
dark ; that they start when in danger of falling ; that they are 
terrified by an angry countenance, or an angry tone of voice ; and 
are soothed and comforted by a placid countenance, and by soft 
and gentle tones of voice. 



OP INSTINCT. 1 43 

II. Of instinct in inferior animals. — [In the animals we are 
best acquainted with, and which we look upon as the more per- 
fect of the brute-creation, we see much the same instincts as in 
the human kind, or very similar ones, suited to the particular 
state and manner of life of the animal.] 

Besides these, there are in brute-animals instincts peculiar to 
each tribe, by which they are fitted for defence, for offence, or 
for providing for themselves, and for their offspring. 

It is not more certain, that nature hath furnished various ani- 
mals with various weapons of offence and defence, than that the 
same nature hath taught them how to use them ; — the bull and 
the ram to butt, the horse to kick, the dog to bite, the lion to 
use his paws, the boar his tusks, the serpent his fangs, and the 
bee and wasp their sting. 

The manufactures of animals, if we may call them by that 
name, present us with a wonderful variety of instincts, belong- 
ing to particular species, whether of the social or of the solitary 
kind ; — the nests of birds, so similar in their situation and archi- 
tecture in the same kind, so various in different kinds ; the 
webs of spiders, and of other spinning animals ; the ball of the 
silk -worm ; the nests of ants and other mining animals ; the 
combs of wasps, hornets, and bees; the dams and houses of 
beavers. 

The instinct of animals is one of the most delightful and 
instructive parts of a most pleasant study, that of natural his- 
tory, and deserves to be more cultivated than it has yet been. 

Every manufacturing art among men was invented by some 
man, improved by others, and brought to perfection by time and 
experience. Men learn to work in it by long practice, which 
produces a habit. The arts of men vary in every age, and in 
every nation, and are found only in those who have been taught 
them. 

The manufactures of animals differ from those of men in many 
striking particulars. 

No animal of the species can claim the invention. No animal 
ever introduced any new improvement, or any variation from 
the former practice. Every one of the species has equal skill 
from the beginning, without teaching, without experience or 
habit. Every one has its art by a kind of inspiration. I do not 
mean that it is inspired with the principles or rules of the art, 
but with the ability and inclination of working in it to perfection, 
without any knowledge of its principles, rules, or end. 

The more sagacious animals may be taught to do many things 
which they do not by instinct. What they are taught to do, 
they do with more or less skill, according to their sagacity and 
their training. But, in their own arts, they need no teaching 
nor training, nor is the art ever improved or lost. Bees gather 



144 ESSAY III— PART I. CHAP. II. 

their honey and their wax, they fabricate their combs and rear 
their young, at this day, neither better nor worse than they did 
when Virgil so sweetly sung their works. 

The work of every animal is indeed like the works of nature, 
perfect in its kind, and can bear the most critical examination of 
the mechanic or the mathematician. One example from the ani- 
mal last mentioned may serve to illustrate this. 

Bees, it is well known, construct their combs with small cells 
on both sides, fit both for holding their store of honey, and for 
rearing their young. There are only three possible figures of 
the cells, which can make them all equal and similar, without 
any useless interstices. These are the equilateral triangle, the 
square, and the regular hexagon. 

It is well known to mathematicians, that there is not a fourth 
way possible, in which a plane may be cut into little spaces that 
shall be equal, similar, and regular, without leaving any interstices. 
Of the three, the hexagon is the most proper, both for conveni- 
ency and strength. Bees, as if they knew this, make their cells 
regular hexagons. 

As the combs have cells on both sides, the cells may either be 
exactly opposite, having partition against partition, or the bot- 
tom of a cell may rest upon the partitions between the cells on 
the other side, which will serve as a buttress to strengthen it. 
The last way is best for strength ; accordingly, the bottom of 
each cell rests against the point where three partitions meet on 
the other side, which gives it all the strength possible. 

The bottom of a cell may either be one plane perpendicular 
to the side-partitions, or it may be composed of several planes, 
meeting in a solid angle in the middle point. It is only in one 
of these two ways, that all the cells can be similar without losing 
room. And, for the same intention, the planes of which the 
bottom is composed, if there be more than one, must be three in 
number, and neither more nor fewer. 

It has been demonstrated, that, by making the bottoms of the 
cells to consist of three planes meeting in a point, there is a 
saving of material and labour no way inconsiderable. The bees, 
as if acquainted with these principles of solid geometry, follow 
them most accurately ; the bottom of each cell being composed 
of three planes which make obtuse angles with the side-par- 
titions, and with one another, and meet in a point in the middle 
of the bottom ; the three angles of this bottom being supported 
by three partitions on the other side of the comb, and the point 
of it by the common intersection of those three partitions. 

One instance more of the mathematical skill displayed in the 
structure of a honey-comb deserves to be mentioned. 

It is a curious mathematical problem, at what precise angle 
the three planes which compose the bottom of a cell, ought to 



OF INSTINCT. 145 

meet, in order to make the greatest possible saving, or the least 
expense of material and labour. 

This is one of those problems, belonging to the higher parts 
of mathematics, which are called problems of maxima and minima. 
It has been resolved by some mathematicians, particularly by 
the ingenious Mr. Maclarurin, by a fluxionary calculation, which 
is to be found in the Transactions of the Royal Society of Lon- 
don. He has determined precisely the angle required ; and he 
found, by the most exact mensuration the subject could admit, 
that it is the very angle in which the three planes in the bottom 
of the cell of a honeycomb do actually meet. 

Shall we ask here, Who taught the bee the properties of solids, 
and to resolve problems of maxima and minima ? If a honey- 
comb were a work of human art, every man of common sense 
would conclude, without hesitation, that he who invented the 
construction must have understood the principles on which it is 
constructed. 

We need not say, that bees know none of these things. gsg° They 
work most geometrically, without any knowledge of geometry ; 
somewhat like a child, who, by turning the handle of an organ, 
makes good music, without any knowledge of music. 

The art is not in the child, but in him who made the organ. 
In like manner, when a bee makes its combs so geometrically, 
the geometry is not in the bee, but in that great Geometrician 
who made the bee, and made all things in number, weight, and 
measure. 

III. Some human instincts transitory, others permanent. — To 
return to instincts in man. Those are most remarkable which 
appear in infancy, when we are ignorant of every thing necessary 
to our preservation, and therefore must perish, if we had not an 
invisible Guide, who leads us blindfold in the way we should 
take, if we had eyes to see it. 

Besides the instincts which appear only in infancy, and are 
intended to supply the want of understanding in that early 
period, there are many which continue through life, and which 
supply the defects of our intellectual powers in every period, 
Of these we may observe three classes. 

First. There are many things necessary to be done for our 
preservation, which, even when we will to do, we know not the 
means by which they must be done. 

A man knows that he must swallow his food before it can 
nourish him. But this action requires the co-operation of many 
nerves and muscles, of which he knows nothing ; and if it were 
to be directed solely by his understanding and will, he would 
starve before he learned how to perforin it. 

Here instinct comes in to his aid. He needs do no more than 
will to swallow. All the requisite motions of nerves and muscles 

L 



14g ESSAY III. CHAP. II. 

immediately take place in their proper order, without his know- 
ing or willing any thing about them. 

If we ask here, Whose will do these nerves and muscles obey ? 
Not his, surely, to whom they belong. He knows neither their 
names, nor nature, nor office ; he never thought of them. They 
are moved by some impulse, of which the cause is unknown, 
without any thought, will, or intention on his part ; that is, they 
are moved instinctively. 

This is the case, in some degree, in every voluntary motion 
of our body. Thus, I will to stretch out my arm. The effect 
immediately follows. But we know that the arm is stretched 
out by the contraction of certain muscles ; and that the muscles 
are contracted by the influence of the nerves. I know nothing, 
I think nothing, either of nerves or muscles, when I stretch out 
my arm ; yet this nervous influence, and this contraction of the 
muscles, uncalled by me, immediately produce the effect which I 
willed. This is as if a weight were to be raised, which can be 
raised only by a complication of levers, pullies, and other me- 
chanical powers, that are behind the curtain, and altogether 
unknown to me. I will to raise the weight ; and no sooner is 
this volition exerted, than the machinery behind the curtain 
falls to work, and raises the weight. 

If such a case should happen, we would conclude that there was 
some person behind the curtain, who knew my will, and put the 
machine in motion to execute it. 

The case of my willing to stretch out my arm, or to swallow 
my food, has evidently a great similarity to this. But who it is 
that stands behind the curtain, and sets the internal machinery 
agoing, is hid from us : so strangely and wonderfully are we 
made. This, however, is evident, that those internal motions 
are not willed, nor intended by us, and therefore are instinctive. 

IV. A second case in which we have need of instinct, even 
in advanced life, is, when the action must be so frequently re- 
peated, that to intend and will it every time it is done, would 
occupy too much of our thought, and leave no room for other 
necessary employments of the mind. 

We must breathe often every minute, whether awake or asleep. 
We must often close the eyelids, in order to preserve the lustre 
of the eye. [If these things required particular attention and 
volition every time they are done, they would occupy all our 
thought. Nature, therefore, gives an impulse to do them as often 
as is necessary, without any thought at all. They consume no 
time, they give not the least interruption to any exercise of the 
mind ; because they are done by instinct.] 

V. A third case, in which we need the aid of instinct, is, 
when the action must be done so suddenly, that there is no 
time to think and determine. B^When a man loses his balance, 



OF INSTINCT 147 

either on foot or on horseback, he makes an instantaneous effort 
to recover it by instinct. The effort would be in vain, if it 
waited the determination of reason and will. 

When any thing threatens our eyes, we wink hard, by instinct, 
and can hardly avoid doing so, even when we know that the 
stroke is aimed in jest, and that we are perfectly safe from dan- 
ger. I have seen this tried upon a wager, which a man was to 
gain if he could keep his eyes open, while another aimed a stroke 
at them in jest. The difficulty of doing this shows that there 
may be a struggle between instinct and will ; and that it is not 
easy to resist the impulse of instinct, even by a strong resolution 
not to yield to it. 

Thus the merciful Author of our nature hath adapted our in- 
stincts to the defects and to the weakness of our understanding. 
In infancy, we are ignorant of every thing ; yet many things must 
be done by us for our preservation : these are done by instinct. 
When we grow up, there are many motions of our limbs and 
bodies necessary, which can be performed only by a curious and 
complex internal machinery — a machinery of which the bulk of 
mankind are totally ignorant, and which the most skilful anatomist 
knows but imperfectly. All this machinery is set agoing by in- 
stinct. We need only to will the external motion, and all the 
internal motions previously necessary to the effect take place of 
themselves, without our will or command. 

Some actions must be so often repeated, through the whole 
of life, that, if they required attention and will, we should be 
able to do nothing else : these go on regularly by instinct. 

Our preservation from danger often requires such sudden ex- 
ertions, that there is no time to think and to determine : ac- 
cordingly we make such exertions by instinct. 

VI. Fourth case in which instinct, probably, is requisite. — 
Another thing in the nature of man, which I take to be partly, 
though not wholly, instinctive, is his proneness to imitation. 

Aristotle observed, long ago, that man is an imitative animal, 
He is so in more respects then one. He is disposed to imitate 
what he approves. In all arts, men learn more, and more 
agreeably, by example than by rules. Imitation by the . chisel, 
by the pencil, by description prosaic and poetical, and by action 
and gesture, have been favourite and elegant entertainments 
of the whole species. In all these cases, however, the imita- 
tion is intended and willed, and therefore cannot be said to be 
instinctive. 

But I apprehend that human nature disposes us to the imitation 
of those among whom we live, when we neither desire nor will it. 

figp" Let an Englishman of middle age take up his residence in 
Edinburgh or Glasgow ; although he has not the least intention to 
use the Scots' dialect, but a firm resolution to preserve his own pure 

l 2 



148 ESSAY III. CHAP. II 

and unmixed, he will find it very difficult to make good his 
intention. He will, in a course of years, fall, insensibly and 
without intention, into the tone and accent, and even into the 
words and phrases, of those he converses with ; and nothing can 
preserve him from this but a strong disgust to every Scotticism, 
which perhaps may overcome the natural instinct. 

It is commonly thought that children often learn to stammer 
by imitation ; yet I believe no person ever desired or willed to 
learn that quality. 

I apprehend that instinctive imitation has no small influence 
in forming the peculiarities of provincial dialects ; the peculiari- 
ties of voice, gesture, and manner, which we see in some fami- 
lies ; the manners peculiar to different ranks, and different pro- 
fessions ; and perhaps even in forming national characters, and 
the human character in general. 

The instances that history furnishes of wild men, brought up 
from early years without the society of any of their own species, 
are so few, that w r e cannot build conclusions upon them with 
great certainty. But all I have heard of agreed in this, that 
the wild man gave but very slender indications of the rational 
faculties ; and with regard to his mind, was hardly distinguish- 
able from the more sagacious of the brutes. 

There is. a considerable part of the lowest rank in every 
nation, of whom it cannot be said that any pains have been 
taken by themselves, or by others, to cultivate their understand- 
ing, or to form their manners ; yet we see an immense differ- 
ence between them and the wild man. 

This difference is wholly the effect of society ; and I think it 
is in a great measure, though not wholly, the effect of unde- 
signed and instinctive imitation. 

VII. Judgment and belief influenced, to a certain extent, by 
instinct. — Perhaps, [not only our actions, but even oux judgment 
and belief, are in some cases guided by instinct, that is, by a na- 
tural and blind impulse.] 

When we consider man as a rational creature, it may seem 
right that he should have no belief but what is grounded upon 
evidence, probable or demonstrative ; and it is, I think, com- 
monly taken for granted, that it is always evidence, real or 
apparent, that determines our belief. 

If this be so, the consequence is, that in no case can there 
be any belief till we find evidence, or at least what, to our judg- 
ment, appears to be evidence. I suspect it is not so ; but that, 
on the contrary, before we grow up to the full use of our 
rational faculties, we do believe, and must believe, many things 
without any evidence at all. 

The faculties which we have in common with brute animals 
are of earlier growth than reason. We are irrational animals 



OF INSTINCT. J^Cj 

for a considerable time before we can properly be called 
rational. 

The operations of reason spring up by imperceptible degrees ; 
nor is it possible for us to trace accurately the order in which 
they rise. The power of reflection, by which only we could 
trace the progress of our growing faculties, comes too late to 
answer that end. Some operations of brute animals look so like 
reason, that they are not easily distinguished from it. Whe- 
ther brutes have any thing that can properly be called belief, I 
cannot say ; but their actions show something that looks very 
like it. 

VIII. If there be any instinctive belief in man, it is proba- 
bly of the same kind with that which we ascribe to brutes, and 
may be specifically different from that rational belief which is 
grounded on evidence ; but that there is something in man which 
we call belief, which is not grounded on evidence, I think, must 
be granted. 

We need to be informed of many things before we are ca- 
pable of discerning the evidence on which they rest. Were 
our belief to be withheld till we are capable, in any degree, 
of weighing evidence, we should lose all the benefit of that 
instruction and information, without which we could never 
attain the use of our rational faculties. 

Man would never acquire the use of reason if he were not 
brought up in the society of reasonable creatures. The benefit 
he receives from society is derived partly from imitation of what 
he sees others do, partly from the instruction and information 
they communicate to him, without which he could neither be 
preserved from destruction, nor acquire the use of his rational 
powers. 

Children have a thousand things to learn, and they learn 
many things every day ; more than will be easily believed by those 
who have never given attention to their progress. 

" Oportet discentem credere" is a common adage. Children have 
every thing to learn, and in order to learn, they must believe their 
instructors : they need a greater stock of faith from infancy to 
twelve or fourteen than ever after. But how shall they get this 
stock, so necessary to them ? If their faith depend upon evidence, 
the stock of evidence, real or apparent, must bear proportion to 
their faith. But such, in reality, is their situation, that when their 
faith must be greatest, the evidence is least. They believe a thou- 
sand things before they ever spend a thought upon evidence. 
Nature supplies the want of evidence, and gives the man instinct- 
ive kind of faith without evidence. 

\_(\)They believe implicitly whatever they are told, and receive 
with assurance the testimony of every one, without ever thinking 
of a reason why they should do so.] 



150 ESSAY III. CHAP. II. 

A parent or a master might command them to believe, but in 
vain, for belief is not in our power ; but in the first part of life it is 
governed by mere testimony in matters of fact, and by mere autho- 
rity in all other matters, no less than by evidence in riper years. 

It is not the words of the testifier, but his belief, that pro- 
duces this belief in a child ; for children soon learn to distinguish 
what is said in jest, from what is said in good earnest. What 
appears to them to be said in jest, produces no belief: they glory 
in showing that they are not to be imposed on. When the signs 
of belief in the speaker are ambiguous, it is pleasant to observe 
with what sagacity they pry into his features, to discern whe- 
ther he really believes what he says, or only counterfeits belief. 
As soon as this point is determined, their belief is regulated by 
his. If he be doubtful, they are doubtful ; if he be assured, 
they are also assured. 

It is well known what a deep impression religious principles, 
zealously inculcated, make upon the minds of children. The ab- 
surdities of ghosts and hobgoblins, early impressed, have been 
known to stick so fast, even in enlightened minds, as to baffle 
all rational conviction. 

When we grow up to the use of reason, testimony attended 
with certain circumstances, or even authority, may afford a ra- 
tional ground of belief ; but with children, without any regard 
to circumstances, either of them operates like demonstration. 
And as they seek no reason, nor can give any reason, for this 
regard to testimony and to authority, it is the effect of a natural 
impulse, and may be called instinct. 

[ (2) Another instance of belief which appears to be instinctive, 
is that which children show even in infancy, that an event which 
they have observed in certain circumstances, will happen again in 
like circumstances.'] A child of half a year old, who has once 
burned his finger by putting it in the candle, will not put it 
there again. And if you make a show of putting it in the 
candle by force, you see the most manifest signs that he believes 
he shall meet with the same calamity. 

IX. Mr. Hume hath shown very clearly, that [this belief is 
not the effect either of reason or experience.] He endeavours to 
account for it by the association of ideas. Though I am not 
satisfied with his account of this phenomenon, I shall not now 
examine it ; because it is sufficient for the present argument, 
that this belief is not grounded on evidence, real or apparent, 
which I think he clearly proves. 

A person who has lived so long in the world, as to observe 
that nature is governed by fixed laws, may have some rational 
ground to expect similar events in similar circumstances ; but 
this cannot be the case of the child. His belief, therefore, is not 
grounded on evidence. It is the result of his constitution. 



OF HABIT. 25| 

Nor is it the less so, though it should arise from the associa- 
tion of ideas. For what is called the association of ideas is a law 
of nature in our constitution ; which produces its effects without 
any operation of reason on our part, and in a manner of which 
we are entirely ignorant. 



CHAPTER III. 

OF HABIT. 



I. Vulgar definition of habit. — Habit differs from instinct, not 
in its nature, but in its origin ; the latter being natural, the 
former acquired. Both operate without will or intention, with- 
out thought, and therefore may be called mechanical principles. 

[Habit is commonly defined, a facility of doing a thing, ac- 
quired by having done it frequently .] This definition is suffi- 
cient for habits of art: but the habits which may, with pro- 
priety, be called principles of action, must give more than a 
facility, they must give an inclination or impulse to do the action ; 
and that, in many cases, habits have this force, cannot be 
doubted. 

How many awkward habits, by frequenting improper com- 
pany, are children apt to learn, in their address, motion, looks, 
gesture, and pronunciation. They acquire such habits, com- 
monly, from an undesigned and instinctive imitation, before they 
can judge of what is proper and becoming. 

When they are a little advanced in understanding, they may 
easily be convinced that such a thing is unbecoming, they may 
resolve to forbear it ; but when the habit is formed, such a ge- 
neral resolution is not of itself sufficient ; for the habit will 
operate without intention ; and particular attention is necessary, 
on every occasion, to resist its impulse, until it be undone by 
the habit of opposing it. 

It is owing to the force of habits, early acquired by imitation, 
that a man who has grown up to manhood in the lowest rank of 
life, if fortune raise him to a higher rank, very rarely acquires 
the air and manners of a gentleman. 

When to that instinctive imitation, which I spoke of before, 
we join the force of habit, it is easy to see, that these mechanical 
principles have no small share in forming the manners and cha- 
racter of most men. 

The difficulty of overcoming vicious habits has, in all ages, 
been a common topic of theologians and moralists ; and we see 
too many sad examples to permit us to doubt of it. 

There are good habits, in a moral sense, as well as bad ; and 
it is certain, that the stated and regular performance of what we 



152 ESSAY III. CHAP. Ill 

approve, not only makes it easy, but makes us uneasy in the 
omission of it. This is the case, even when the action derives 
all its goodness from the opinion of the performer. A good 
illiterate Roman Catholic does not sleep sound if he goes to 
bed without telling his beads, and repeating prayers which he 
does not understand. 

Aristotle makes wisdom, prudence, good sense, science, and 
art, as well as the moral virtues and vices, to be habits. If he 
meant no more, by giving this name to all those intellectual 
and moral qualities, than that they are all strengthened and con- 
tinued by repeated acts, this is undoubtedly true. I take the 
word in a less extensive sense, when I consider habits as princi- 
ples of action. I conceive it to be a part of our constitution, 
that what we have been accustomed to do, we acquire, not only 
a facility, but a proneness to do on like occasions ; so that it 
requires a particular will and effort to forbear it ; but to do it, 
requires very often no will at all. We are carried by habit as 
by a stream in swimming, if we make no resistance. 

II. The art of speaking, the strongest illustration of the force of 
habit. — [Every art furnishes examples both of the power of habits 
and of their utility ; no one more than the most common of all 
arts, the art of speaking.] 

Articulate language is spoken, not by nature, but by art. It 
is no easy matter to children to learn the simple sounds of lan- 
guage ; I mean, to learn to pronounce the vowels and consonants. 
It would be much more difficult, if they were not led by instinct 
to imitate the sounds they hear ; for the difficulty is vastly 
greater of teaching the deaf to pronounce the letters and words, 
though experience shows that it can be done. 

What is it that makes this pronunciation so easy at last which 
was so difficult at first ? It is habit. 

But from what cause does it happen, that a good speaker no 
sooner conceives what he would express, than the letters, sylla- 
bles and words arrange themselves according to innumerable 
rules of speech, while he never thinks of these rules ? He means 
to express certain sentiments. In order to do this properly, 
a selection must be made of the materials, out of many thou- 
sands. He makes this selection without any expense of time 
or thought. The materials selected must be arranged in a 
particular order, according to innumerable rules of grammar, 
logic, and rhetoric, and accompanied with a particular tone and 
emphasis. He does all this, as it were, by inspiration, without 
thinking of any of these rules, and without breaking one of them. 

This art, if it were not more common, would appear more won- 
derful than that a man should dance blindfold amidst a thou- 
sand burning ploughshares, without being burnt; yet all this 
may be done by habit. 



OF HABIT. 153 

It appears evident, that as, without instinct, the infant could 
not live to become a man, so, without habit, man would remain 
an infant through life, and would be as helpless, as unhandy, as 
speechless, and as much a child in understanding at threescore as 
at three. 

[I see no reason to think, that we shall ever be able to assign 
the physical cause, either of instinct or of the power of habit.] 

Both seem to be parts of our original constitution. Their end 
and use is evident ; but we can assign no cause of them, but the 
will of Him who made us. 

III. [With regard to instinct, which is a natural propensity , 
this will perhaps be easily granted ; but it is no less true with 
regard to that power and inclination which we acquire by habit.] 

No man can show a reason why our doing a thing frequently 
should produce either facility or inclination to do it. 

The fact is so notorious, and so constantly in our eye, that we 
are apt to think no reason should be sought for it, any more than 
why the sun shines. But there must be a cause of the sun's 
shining, and there must be a cause of the power of habit. 

We see nothing analogous to it in inanimate matter, or in 
things made by human art. A clock or a watch, a wagon or a 
plough, by the custom of going, does not learn to go better, or 
require less moving force. The earth does not increase in fer- 
tility by the custom of bearing crops. 

g§P° It is said, that trees and other vegetables, by growing long 
in an unkindly soil or climate, sometimes acquire qualities by 
which they can bear its inclemency with less hurt. This, in the 
vegetable kingdom, has some resemblance to the power of habit ; 
but, in inanimate matter, I know nothing that resembles it. 

BgF A stone loses nothing of its weight by being long sup- 
ported, or made to move upward. A body, by being tossed about 
ever so long, or ever so violently, loses nothing of its inertia, 
nor acquires the least disposition to change its state. 



154 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. I. 

PART II. 

OP ANIMAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 

CHAPTER I. 

OF APPETITES. 

I. Definition of animal principles of action. — Having dis- 
coursed of the mechanical principles of action, I proceed to 
consider those I called animal. 

They are [such as operate upon the will and intention, but do 
not suppose any exercise of judgment or reason ; and are most of 
them to be found in some brute animals, as well as in man.] 

In this class, the first kind I shall call appetites, taking that 
word in a stricter sense than it is sometimes taken, even by good 
writers. 

The word appetite is sometimes limited, so as to signify only 
the desire of food when we hunger ; sometimes it is extended 
so as to signify any strong desire, whatever be its object. With- 
out pretending to censure any use of the word which custom hath 
authorized, I beg leave to limit it to a particular class of desires, 
which are distinguished from all others by the following marks. 

First. Every appetite is accompanied with an uneasy sensation 
proper to it, which is strong or weak, in proportion to the desire 
we have of the object. Secondly. Appetites are not constant, 
but periodical, being sated by their objects for a time, and re- 
turning after certain periods. Such is the nature of those princi- 
ples of action, to which I beg leave, in this essay, to appropriate 
the name of appetites. Those that are chiefly observable in man, 
as well as in most other animals, are hunger, thirst, and lust. 

[If we attend to the appetite of hunger, we shall find in it two 
ingredients, an uneasy sensation, and a desire to eat.] The de- 
sire keeps pace with the sensation, and ceases when it ceases. 
When a man is sated with eating, both the uneasy sensation and 
the desire to eat cease for a time, and return after a certain 
interval. So it is with other appetites. 

In infants, for some time after they come into the world, the 
uneasy sensation of hunger is probably the whole. We cannot 
suppose in them, before experience, any conception of eating, 
nor, consequently, any desire of it. They are led by mere in- 
stinct to suck when they feel the sensation of hunger. But 
when experience has connected, in their imagination, the uneasy 
sensation with the means of removing it, the desire of the last 
comes to be so associated with the first, that they remain through 
life inseparable ; and we give the name of hunger to the principle 
that is made up of both. 



OF APPETITES. \ 55 

That the appetite of hunger includes the two ingredients I 
have mentioned, will not, I apprehend, be questioned. I take 
notice of it the rather because we may, if 1 mistake not, find a 
similar composition in other principles of action. They are made 
up of different ingredients, and may be analyzed into the parts 
that enter into their composition. 

If one philosopher should maintain, that hunger is an uneasy 
sensation, another, that it is a desire to eat, they seem to differ 
widely; for a desire and a sensation are very different things, 
and have no similitude. But they are both in the right; for 
hunger includes both an uneasy sensation and a desire to eat. 

Although there has been no such dispute among philosophers 
as we have supposed with regard to hunger, yet there have been 
similar disputes with regard to other principles of action ; and it 
deserves to be considered whether they may not be terminated in 
a similar manner. 

II. [The ends for which our natural appetites are given are 
too evident to escape the observation of any man of the least 
reflection. Two of those I named are intended for the pre- 
servation of the individual, and the third for the continuance of 
the species.] 

The reason of mankind would be altogether insufficient for 
these ends, without the direction and call of appetite. 

Though a man knew that his life must be supported by eating, 
reason could not direct him when to eat, or what ; how much, or 
how often. In all these things, appetite is a much better guide 
than our reason. Were reason only to direct us in this matter, 
its calm voice would often be drowned in the hurry of business, 
or the charms of amusement. But the voice of appetite rises 
gradually, and, at last, becomes loud enough to call off* our atten- 
tion from any other employment. 

Every man must be convinced, that, without our appetites, 
even supposing mankind inspired with all the knowledge requi- 
site for answering their ends, the race of men must have perished 
long ago ; but, by their means, the race is continued from one 
generation to another, whether men be savage or civilized, know- 
ing or ignorant, virtuous or vicious. 

By the same means, every tribe of brute-animals, from the 
whale that ranges the ocean to the least microscopic insect, has 
been continued from the beginning of the world to this day ; nor 
has good evidence been found, that any one species which God 
made has perished.* 

Nature has given to every animal, not only an appetite for its 
food, but taste and smell, by which it distinguishes the food 
proper for it. 

It is pleasant to see a caterpillar, which nature intended to 

* This assertion appears to be contradicted by recent geological discoveries. 



156 ESSAY III -PART II. CHAP. I. 

live upon the leaf of one species of plant, travel over a hundred 
leaves of other kinds without tasting one, till it comes to that 
which is its natural food, which it immediately falls on, and de- 
vours greedily. 

Most caterpillars feed only upon the leaf of one species of 
plant, and nature suits the season of their production to the food 
that is intended to nourish them. Many insects and animals have 
a greater variety of food ; but, of all animals, man has the greatest 
variety, being able to subsist upon almost every kind of vegetable 
or animal food, from the bark of trees to the oil of whales. 

I believe our natural appetites may be made more violent by 
excessive indulgence, and that, on the other hand, they may be 
weakened by starving. The first is often the effect of a perni- 
cious luxury, the last may sometimes be the effect of want, some- 
times of superstition. I apprehend that nature has given to our 
appetites that degree of strength which is most proper for us ; 
and that whatever alters their natural tone, either in excess or 
in defect, does not mend the work of nature, but may mar and 
pervert it. 

A man may eat from appetite only. So the brutes commonly 
do. He may eat to please his taste, when he has no call of appe- 
tite. I believe a brute may do this also. He may eat for the 
sake of health, when neither appetite nor taste invites. This, as 
far as I am able to judge, brutes never do. 

From so many different principles, and from many more, the 
same action may be done ; and this may be said of most human 
actions. From this, it appears, that very different and contrary 
theories may serve to account for the actions of men. The causes 
assigned may be sufficient to produce the effect, and yet not be 
the true causes. 

To act merely from appetite is neither good nor ill in a moral 
view. It is neither an object of praise nor of blame. No man 
claims any praise because he eats when he is hungry, or rests 
when he is weary. On the other hand, he is no object of blame, 
if he obeys the call of appetite when there is no reason to hinder 
him. In this, he acts agreeably to his nature. 

III. From this we may observe, that [the definition of virtu- 
ous actions, given by the ancient Stoics, and adopted by some 
modern authors, is imperfect. They denned virtuous actions to 
be such as are according to nature J\ What is done according to 
the animal part of our nature, which is common to us with the 
brute-animals, is in itself neither virtuous nor vicious, but per- 
fectly indifferent. Then only it becomes vicious, when it is done 
in opposition to some principle of superior importance and autho- 
rity. And it may be virtuous, if done for some important or 
worthy end. 

Appetites, considered in themselves, are neither social princi- 



OF APPETITES. \ 57 

pies of action, nor selfish. They cannot be called social, because 
they imply no concern for the good of others. Nor can they 
justly be called selfish, though they be commonly referred to that 
class. An appetite draws us to a certain object, without regard 
to its being good for us, or ill. There is no self-love implied in 
it any more than benevolence. We see, that, in many cases, 
appetite may lead a man to what he knows will be to his hurt. 
To call this acting from self-love, is to pervert the meaning of 
words. It is evident, that, in every case of this kind, self-love is 
sacrificed to appetite. 

IV. There are some principles of the human frame very like 
to our appetites, though they do not commonly get that name. 

Men are made for labour, either of body or mind. Yet exces- 
sive labour hurts the powers of both. To prevent this hurt, 
nature hath given to men, and other animals, an uneasy sensa- 
tion, which always attends excessive labour, and which we call 
fatigue, weariness, lassitude. This uneasy sensation is conjoined 
with the desire of rest, or intermission of our labour. And thus 
nature calls us to rest when we are weary, in the same manner 
as to eat when we are hungry. 

In both cases, there is a desire of a certain object, and an un- 
easy sensation accompanying that desire. In both cases, the 
desire is satiated by its object, and returns after certain intervals. 
In this only they differ, that in the appetites first mentioned, the 
uneasy sensation arises at intervals without action, and leads to 
a certain action : in weariness, the uneasy sensation arises from 
action too long continued, and leads to rest. 

But nature intended that we should be active, and we need 
some principle to incite us to action, when we happen not to be 
invited by any appetite or passion. 

For this end, when strength and spirits are recruited by rest, 
nature has made total inaction as uneasy as excessive labour. 

We may call this the principle of activity. It is most conspi- 
cuous in children, who cannot be supposed to know how useful 
and necessary it is for their improvement to be constantly em- 
ployed. Their constant activity therefore appears not to proceed 
from their having some end constantly in view, but rather from 
this, that they desire to be always doing something, and feel un- 
easiness in total inaction. 

V. The principle of activity belongs to every period of life. — 
Nor is this principle confined to childhood ; it has great effects 
in advanced life. 

When a man has neither hope, nor fear, nor desire, nor pro- 
ject, nor employment, of body or mind, one might be apt to 
think him the happiest mortal upon earth, having nothing to 
do but to enjoy himself: but we find him, in fact, the most 
unhappy. 

He is more weary of inaction than ever he was of excessive 



158 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. I. 

labour. He is weary of the world, and of his own existence ; 
and is more miserable than the sailor wrestling with a storm, or 
the soldier mounting a breach. 

This dismal state is commonly the lot of the man who has 
neither exercise of body nor employment of mind, gsgr For the 
mind, like water, corrupts and putrifles by stagnation, but by 
running purines and refines. 

Besides the appetites which nature hath given us for useful 
and necessary purposes, we may create appetites which nature 
never gave. 

The frequent use of things which stimulate the nervous sys- 
tem produces a languor when their effect is gone off, and a 
desire to repeat them. By this means a desire of a certain object 
is created, accompanied by an uneasy sensation. Both are re- 
moved for a time by the object desired; but they return after 
a certain interval. This differs from natural appetite, only in 
being acquired by custom. Such are the appetites which some 
men acquire for the use of tobacco, for opiates, and for intoxi- 
cating liquors. 

These are commonly called habits, and justly. But there are 
different kinds of habits, even of the active sort, which ought to 
be distinguished. Some habits produce only a facility of doing 
a thing, without any inclination to do it. All arts are habits of 
this kind; but they cannot be called principles of action. Other 
habits produce a proneness to do an action, without thought 
or intention. These we considered before as mechanical principles 
of action. There are other habits which produce a desire of a 
certain object, and an uneasy sensation till it is obtained. It is 
this last kind only that I call acquired appetites. 

VI. [As it is best to preserve our natural appetites in that 
tone and degree of strength which nature gives them, so we 
ought to beware of acquiring appetites which nature never gave. 
They are always useless, and very often hurtful.] 

Although, as was before observed, there be neither virtue nor 
vice in acting from appetite, there may be much of either in the 
management of our appetites. 

When appetite is opposed by some principle drawing a con- 
trary way, there must be a determination of the will, which shall 
prevail, and this determination may be, in a moral sense, right 
or wrong. 

Appetite, even in a brute-animal, may be restrained by a 
stronger principle opposed to it. A dog, when he is hungry, and 
has meat set before him, may be kept from touching it by the 
fear of immediate punishment. In this case, his fear operates 
more strongly than his desire. 

Do we attribute any virtue to the dog on this account? I 
think not. Nor should we ascribe any virtue to a man in a like 
case. The animal is carried by the strongest moving force. This 



OF APPETITES. ■ J^() 

requires no exertion, no self-government, but passively to yield 
to the strongest impulse. This, I think, brutes always do ; there- 
fore we attribute to them neither virtue nor vice. We consider 
them as being neither objects of moral approbation nor dis- 
approbation. 

VII. The government of appetites gives a superiority to man 
over brute animals. —But it may happen that, when appetite 
draws one way, it may be opposed, not by any appetite or pas- 
sion, but by some cool principle of action, which has authority 
without any impulsive force. For example, by some interest, 
which is too distant to raise any passion or emotion, or by some 
consideration of decency or of duty. 

In cases of this kind, the man is convinced that he ought not 
to yield to appetite ; yet there is not an equal or a greater im- 
pulse to oppose it. There are circumstances, indeed, that con- 
vince the judgment ; but these are not sufficient to determine 
the will against a strong appetite, without self-government. 

[I apprehend that brute animals have no poiver of self-go- 
vernment. From their constitution, they must be led by the 
appetite or passion which is strongest for the time. 

On this account, they have, in all ages, and among all nations, 
been thought incapable of being governed by laws, though some 
of them may be subjects of discipline^ 

The same would be the condition of man, if he had no power 
to restrain appetite but by a stronger contrary appetite or pas- 
sion. It would be to no purpose to prescribe laws to him for 
the government of his actions. You might as well forbid the 
wind to blow, as forbid him to follow whatever happens to give 
the strongest present impulse. 

Every one knows, that when appetite draws one way, duty, 
decency, or even interest, may draw the contrary way ; and that 
appetite may give a stronger impulse than any one of these, or 
even all of them conjoined. Yet it is certain that in every case 
of this kind, appetite ought to yield to any of these principles 
when it stands opposed to them. It is in such cases that self- 
government is necessary. 

The man who suffers himself to be led by appetite to do what 
he knows he ought not to do, has an immediate and natural 
conviction that he did wrong, and might have done otherwise ; 
and therefore he condemns himself, and confesses that he yielded 
to an appetite which ought to have been under his command. 

[Thus it appears, that though our natural appetites have in 
themselves neither virtue nor vice ; though the acting merely 
from appetite, when there is no principle of greater authority to 
oppose it, be a matter indifferent ; yet there may be a great deal 
of virtue or of vice in the management of our appetites ; and that 
the power of self-government is necessary for their regulation.] 



160 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. II. 



CHAPTER II. 

OF DESIRES. 

I. Distinction between appetites and desires twofold. — An- 
other class of animal principles of action in man, I shall, for 
want of a better specific name, call desires. 

[They are distinguished from appetites by this : That (1) there 
is not an uneasy sensation proper to each, and always accompa- 
nying it ; and that (2) they are not periodical, but constant, not 
being sated with their objects for a time, as appetites are.] 

The desires I have in view are chiefly these three : the de- 
sire of power, the desire of esteem, and the desire of knowledge. 

We may, I think, perceive some degree of these principles 
in brute-animals of the more sagacious kind ; but in man they 
are much more "conspicuous, and have a larger sphere. 

In a herd of black cattle there is a rank and subordination. 
When a stranger is introduced into the herd, he must fight 
every one till his rank is settled. Then he yields to the stronger 
and assumes authority over the weaker. The case is much the 
same in the crew of a ship of war. 

As soon as men associate together, the desire of superiority 
discovers itself. In barbarous tribes, as well as among the gre- 
garious kinds of animals, rank is determined by strength, cou- 
rage, swiftness, or such other qualities. Among civilized na- 
tions, many things of a different kind give power and rank — 
places in government, titles of honour, riches, wisdom, elo- 
quence, virtue, and even the reputation of these. All these are 
either different species of power, or means of acquiring it ; and 
when they are sought for that end, must be considered as in- 
stances of the desire of power. 

II. Of esteem and contempt. — The desire of esteem is not pe- 
culiar to man. A dog exults in the approbation and applause 
of his master, and is humbled by his displeasure. But in man 
this desire is much more conspicuous, and operates in a thousand 
different ways. 

[Hence it is that so very few are proof against flattery, when 
it is not very gross. We wish to be well in the opinion of others, 
and therefore are prone to interpret in our own favour the signs 
of their good opinion, even when they are ambiguous.] 

There are few injuries that are not more easy to be borne than 
contempt. 

We cannot always avoid seeing, in the conduct of others, 
things that move contempt ; but, in all polite circles, the signs 
of it must be suppressed, otherwise men could not converse to- 
gether. 



OF DESIRES. \Q\ 

As there is no quality, common to good and bad men, more 
esteemed than courage, nor any thing in a man more the object 
of contempt than cowardice ; hence every man desires to be 
thought a man of courage ; and the reputation of cowardice is 
worse than death. How many have died to avoid being thought 
cowards ! How many, for the same reason, have done what made 
them unhappy to the end of their lives ! 

I believe many a tragical event, if traced to its source in hu- 
man nature, might be referred to the desire of esteem, or the 
dread of contempt. 

III. In brute animals there is so little that can be called know- 
ledge, that the desire of it can make no considerable figure in 
them. Yet I have seen a cat, when brought into a new habita- 
tion, examine with care every corner of it, and anxious to know 
every lurking place, and the avenues to it. And I believe the 
same thing may be observed in many other species, especially in 
those that are liable to be hunted by man, or by other animals. 

But the desire of knowledge in the human species, is a prin- 
ciple that cannot escape our observation. 

The curiosity of children is the principle that occupies most 
of their time while they are awake. What they can handle they 
examine on all sides, and often break in pieces, in order to dis- 
cover what is within. 

When men grow up, their curiosity does not cease, but is 
employed upon other objects. Novelty is considered as one 
great source of the pleasures of taste, and indeed is necessary, 
in one degree or other, to give a relish to them all. 

When we speak of the desire of knowledge as a principle of 
action in man, we must not confine it to the pursuits of the 
philosopher, or of the literary man. The desire of knowledge 
discovers itself, in one person, by an avidity to know the scan- 
dal of the village, and who makes love, and to whom ; in an- 
other, to know the economy of the next family ; in another, to 
know what the post brings ; and in another to trace the path of 
a new comet. 

When men show an anxiety, and take pains to know what is 
of no moment, and can be of no use to themselves or to others, 
this is trifling, and vain curiosity. It is a culpable weakness 
and folly ; but still it is the wrong direction of a natural prin- 
ciple, and shows the force of that principle, more than when it 
is directed to matters worthy to be known. 

IV. I think it unnecessary to use arguments to show that [the 
desires of power, of esteem, and of knowledge, are natural prin- 
ciples in the constitution of man.] Those who are not con- 
vinced of this by reflecting upon their own feelings and senti- 
ments, will not easily be convinced by arguments. 

[Power, esteem and knowledge, are so useful for many pur- 

M 



\Q2 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. II. 

poses, that it is easy to resolve the desire of them into other 
principles. Those who do so must maintain that we never de- 
sire these objects for their own sakes, but as means only of pro- 
curing pleasure, or something which is a natural object of desire. 
This, indeed, was the doctrine of Epicurus ; and it had its vo- 
taries in modern times. But it has been observed that men 
desire posthumous fame, which can procure no pleasure.]* 

Epicurus himself, though he believed that he should have no 
existence after death, was so desirous to be remembered with 
esteem, that, by his last will, he appointed his heirs to comme- 
morate his birth annually, and to give a monthly feast to his dis- 
ciples, upon the twentieth day of the moon. What pleasure 
could this give to Epicurus when he had no existence ? On this 
account, Cicero justly observes, that his doctrine was refuted by 
his own practice. 

Innumerable instances occur in life, of men who sacrifice ease, 
pleasure, and every thing else, to the lust of power, of fame, or 
even of knowledge. It is absurd to suppose, that men should 
sacrifice the end to what they desire only as the means of pro- 
moting that end. 

V. Such natural desires not selfish principles. — [The natural 
desires I have mentioned are, in themselves, neither virtuous nor 
vicious. They are parts of our constitution, and ought to be 
regulated and restrained, when they stand in competition with 
more important principles. But to eradicate them, if it were 
possible (and I believe it is not), would only be like cutting off 
a leg or an arm, that is, making ourselves other creatures than 
God has made us.] 

They cannot, with propriety, be called selfish principles, though 
they have commonly been accounted such. 

When power is desired for its own sake, and not as the means 
in order to obtain something else, this desire is neither selfish nor 
social. When a man desires power as the means of doing good 
to others, this is benevolence. When he desires it only as the 
means of promoting his own good, this is self-love. But when 
he desires it for its own sake, this only can properly be called the 
desire of power ; and it implies neither self love nor benevolence. 
The same thing may be applied to the desires of esteem and of 
knowledge. 

VI. Our desires auxiliary to the maintenance of morals. — 
The wise intention of nature in giving us these desires, is no less 
evident than in giving our natural appetites. 

[Without the natural appetites, reason, as was before ob- 
served, would be insufficient, either for the preservation of 
the individual, or the continuation of the species ; and without 
the natural desires we have mentioned, human virtue would 
* The expectation is accompanied by present pleasure. 



OF DESIRES. 163 

be insufficient to influence mankind to a tolerable conduct in 
society.] 

To these natural desires, common to good and to bad men, it 
is owing, that a man, who has little or no regard to virtue, may 
notwithstanding be a good member of society. It is true, indeed, 
that perfect virtue, joined with perfect knowledge, would make 
both our appetites and desires unnecessary incumbrances of our 
nature ; but as human knowledge and human virtue are both 
very imperfect, these appetites and desires are necessary supple- 
ments to our imperfections. 

Society among men could not subsist without a certain degree 
of that regularity of conduct which virtue prescribes. To this 
regularity of conduct, men who have no virtue are induced by a 
regard to character, sometimes by a regard to interest. 

[Even in those who are not destitute of virtue, a regard to 
character is often an useful auxiliary to it, when both principles 
concur in their direction.] 

VII. The pursuits of power, of fame, and of knowledge, re- 
quire self-command no less than virtue does. In our behaviour 
towards our fellow-creatures, they generally lead to that very 
conduct which virtue requires. I say generally, for this, no 
doubt, admits of exceptions, especially in the case of ambition, 
or the desire of power. 

The evils which ambition has produced in the world are a 
common topic of declamation. But it ought to be observed, that 
where it has led to one action hurtful to society, it has led to ten 
thousand that are beneficial to it. And we justly look upon the 
want of ambition as one of the most unfavourable symptoms in 
a man's temper. 

The desires of esteem and of knowledge are highly useful to 
society, as well as the desire of power, and, at the same time, are 
less dangerous in their excesses. 

Although actions proceeding merely from the love of power, 
of reputation, or of knowledge, cannot be accounted virtuous, 
or be entitled to moral approbation ; yet we allow them to be 
manly, ingenuous, and suited to the dignity of human nature ; 
and therefore they are entitled to a degree of estimation, supe- 
rior to those which proceed from mere appetite. 

Alexander the Great deserved that epithet in the early part of 
his life, when ease and pleasure, and every appetite, were sacri- 
ficed to the love of glory and power. But when we view him 
conquered by oriental luxury, and using his power to gratify his 
passions and appetites, he sinks in our esteem, and seems to for- 
feit the title which he had acquired. 

Sardanapalus, who is said to have pursued pleasure as eagerly 
as Alexander pursued glory, never obtained from mankind the 
appellation of the Great. 

m 2 



1(54 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. II. 

Appetite is the principle of most of the actions of brutes, and 
we account it brutal in a man to employ himself chiefly in the 
gratification of his appetites. [The desires of power, of esteem, 
and of knowledge, are capital parts in the constitution of man ; 
and the actions proceeding from them, though not properly vir- 
tuous, are human and manly ; and they claim a just superiority 
over those that proceed from appetite.] This, I think, is the 
universal and unbiassed judgment of mankind. Upon what 
ground this judgment is founded, may deserve to be considered 
in its proper place. 

VI II. [The desires we have mentioned are not only (1) highly 
useful in society, and in their nature (2) more noble than our 
appetites, they are likewise (3) the most proper engines that can 
be used in the education and discipline of men."] 

In training brute-animals to such habits as they are capable of, 
the fear of punishment is the chief instrument to be used. But 
in training men of ingenuous disposition, ambition to excel, and 
the love of esteem, are much nobler and more powerful engines, 
by which they may be led to worthy conduct, and trained to 
good habits. 

To this we may add, that the desires we have mentioned 
are very friendly to real virtue, and make it more easy to be 
acquired. 

A man that is not quite abandoned must behave so in society 
as to preserve some degree of reputation. This every man de- 
sires to do, and the greater part actually do it. In order to this, 
he must acquire the habit of restraining his appetites and pas- 
sions within the bounds which common decency requires, and so 
as to make himself a tolerable member of society, if not an useful 
and agreeable one. 

It cannot be doubted that many, from a regard to character 
and to the opinion of others, are led to make themselves both 
useful and agTeeable members of society, in whom a sense of 
duty has but a small influence. 

Thus men, living in society, especially in polished society, are 
tamed and civilized by the principles that are common to good 
and bad men. They are taught to bring their appetites and 
passions under due restraint before the eyes of men, which makes 
it more easy to bring them under the rein of virtue. 

®SF As a horse that is broken is more easily managed than an 
unbroken colt, so the man who has undergone the discipline of 
society is more tractable, and is in an excellent state of prepara- 
tion for the discipline of virtue ; and that self-command, which 
is necessary in the race of ambition and honour, is an attainment 
of no small importance in the course of virtue. 

For this reason, I apprehend, they err very grossly who con- 
ceive the life of a hermit to be favourable to a course of virtue. 



OF DESIRES. Jg5 

The hermit, no doubt, is free from some temptations to vice, but 
he is deprived of many strong inducements to self-government, 
as well as of every opportunity of exercising the social virtues. 

[A very ingenious author has resolved our moral sentiments 
respecting the virtues of self-government, into a regard to the 
opinion of men. This I think is giving a great deal too much to 
the love of esteem, and putting the shadow of virtue in place of 
the substance ; but that a regard to the opinion of others is, in 
most instances of our external behaviour, a great inducement to 
good conduct, cannot be doubted. For, whatever men may prac- 
tise themselves, they will always approve of that in others which 
they think right.] 

IX. Of acquired desires. — [It was before observed, that, be- 
sides the appetites which nature has given us, we may acquire 
appetites which, by indulgence, become as important as the na- 
tural. The same thing may be applied to desires.'] 

One of the most remarkable acquired desires is that of money, 
which, in commercial states, will be found in most men, in one 
degree or other, and, in some men, swallows up every other 
desire, appetite and passion. 

The desire of money can then only be accounted a principle 
of action, when it is desired for its own sake, and not merely as 
the means of procuring something else. 

It seems evident, that there is in misers such a desire of money; 
and, I suppose, no man will say that it is natural, or a part of 
our original constitution. It seems to be the effect of habit. 

In commercial nations, money is an instrument by which 
ahnost every thing may be procured that is desired. Being 
useful for many different purposes as the means, some men lose 
sight of the end, and terminate their desire upon the means. 
[Money is also a species of power, putting a man in condition to 
do many things which he could not do without it ; and power is 
a natural object of desire, even when it is not exercised.] 

In like manner, a man may acquire the desire of a title of 
honour, of an equipage, of an estate. 

Although our natural desires are highly beneficial to society, 
and even aiding to virtue, yet acquired desires are not only use- 
less, but hurtful and even disgraceful. 

[No man is ashamed to own, that he loves power, that he loves 
esteem, that he loves knowledge, for their own sake. There may 
be an excess in the love of these things, which is a blemish ; but 
there is a degree of it, which is natural, and is no blemish.] To 
love money, titles or equipage, on any other account than as 
they are useful or ornamental, is allowed by all to be weakness 
and folly. 

The natural desires I have been considering, though they can- 
not be called social principles of action in the common sense 



1(3(3 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. III. 

that word, since it is not their object to procure any good or 
benefit to others, yet they have such a relation to society, as to 
show most evidently the intention of nature to be, that man 
should live in society. 

The desire of knowledge is not more natural than is the desire 
of communicating our knowledge. Even power would be less 
valued if there were no opportunity of showing it to others. It 
derives half its value from that circumstance. And as to the 
desire of esteem, it can have no possible gratification but in 
society. 

[These parts of our constitution, therefore, are evidently in- 
tended for social life ; and it is not more evident that birds were 
made for flying and fishes for swimming, than that man, endowed 
with a natural desire of power, of esteem, and of knowledge, is 
made, not for the savage and solitary state, but for living in 
society.] 



CHAPTER III. 

OF BENEVOLENT AFFECTION IN GENERAL. 

I. We have seen how, by instinct and habit, a kind of me- 
chanical principle, man, without any expense of thought, with- 
out deliberation or will, is led to many actions necessary for 
his preservation and well-being, which, without those princi- 
ples, all his skill and wisdom would not have been able to ac- 
complish. 

It may perhaps be thought that his deliberate and voluntary 
actions are to be guided by his reason. 

[But it ought to be observed, that he is a voluntary agent 
long before he has the use of reason. Reason and virtue, the 
prerogatives of man, are of the latest growth.] They come to 
maturity by slow degrees, and are too weak, in the greater part 
of the species, to secure the preservation of individuals and of 
communities, and to produce that varied scene of human life, in 
which they are to be exercised and improved. 

Therefore the wise Author of our being hath implanted in 
human nature many inferior principles of action, which, with 
little or no aid of reason or virtue, preserve the species, and 
produce the various exertions, and the various changes and re- 
volutions which we observe upon the theatre of life. 

In this busy scene, reason and virtue have access to act their 
parts, and do often produce great and good effects ; but whether 
they interpose or not, there are actors of an inferior order that 
will carry on the play, and produce a variety of events, good or 
bad. 



OF BENEVOLENT AFFECTION IN GENERAL. JgY 

Reason, if it were perfect, would lead men to use the proper 
means of preserving their own lives, and continuing their kind. 
But the Author of our being hath not thought fit to leave this 
task to reason alone, otherwise the race would long ago have 
been extinct. He hath given us, in common with other ani- 
mals, appetites, by which those important purposes are secured, 
whether men be wise or foolish, virtuous or vicious. 

Reason, if it were perfect, would lead men neither to lose the 
benefit of their active powers by inactivity, nor to overstrain 
them by excessive labour. But nature hath given a powerful 
assistant to reason, by making inactivity a grievous punishment to 
itself ; and by annexing the pain of lassitude to excessive labour. 

Reason, if it were perfect, would lead us to desire power, 
knowledge, and the esteem and affection of our fellow-men, as 
means of promoting our own happiness, and of being useful to 
others. Here, again, Nature, to supply the defects of reason, 
hath given us a strong natural desire of those objects, which leads 
us to pursue them without regard to their utility. 

II. Objects of our desires and our affections different. — [These 
principles we have already considered ; and we may observe, that 
all of them have things, not persons, for their object. They 
neither imply any good nor ill affections towards any other per- 
son, nor even towards ourselves. They cannot, therefore, with 
propriety, be called either selfish or social.~\ But there are various 
principles of action in man, which have persons for their imme- 
diate object, and imply, in their very nature, our being well or ill 
affected to some person, or at least to some animated being. 

Such principles I shall call by the general name of affections, 
whether they dispose to do good or hurt to others. 

Perhaps, in giving them this general name, I extend the 
meaning of the word affection beyond its common use in dis- 
course. Indeed, our language seems in this to have departed 
a little from analogy : for we use the verb affect, and the par- 
ticiple affected, in an indifferent sense, so that they may be 
joined either with good or ill. A man may be said to be 
ill affected towards another man, or well affected. But the word 
affection, which, according to analogy, ought to have the same 
latitude of signification with that from which it is derived, and 
therefore ought to be applicable to ill affections as well as to 
good, seems, by custom, to be limited to good affections. 
When we speak of having affection for any person, it is always 
understood to be a benevolent affection. 

Malevolent principles, such as anger, resentment, envy, are 
not commonly called affections, but rather passions. 

I take the reason of this to be, that the malevolent affections 
are almost always accompanied with that perturbation of mind 
which we properly call passion ; and this passion, being the 
most conspicuous ingredient, gives its name to the whole. 



\Q$ ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP . Ill 

Even love, when it goes beyond a certain degree, is called a 
passion. But it gets not that name when it is so moderate as 
not to discompose a man's mind, nor deprive him in any mea- 
sure of the government of himself. 

As we give the name of passion, even to benevolent affection 
when it is so vehement as to discompose the mind, so, I think, 
without trespassing much against propriety of words, we may 
give the name of affection even to malevolent principles, when 
unattended with that disturbance of mind which commonly, 
though not always, goes along with them, and which has made 
them get the name of passions. 

The principles which lead us immediately to desire the good 
of others, and those that lead us to desire their hurt, agree in 
this, that persons, and not things, are their immediate object. 
Both imply our being some way affected towards the person. 
They ought therefore to have some common name to express 
what is common in their nature ; and I know no name more 
proper for this than affection. 

III. Taking affection, therefore, in this extensive sense, our 
affections are very naturally divided into benevolent and malevo- 
lent, according as they imply our being well or ill affected to- 
wards their object. 

There are some things common to all benevolent affections, 
others wherein they differ. 

They differ both in the feeling, or sensation, which is an in- 
gredient in all of them, and in the objects to which they are 
directed. 

They all agree in two things, to wit, That the feeling which 
accompanies them is agreeable ; and that they imply a desire of 
good and happiness to their object. 

The affection we bear to a parent, to a child, to a benefac- 
tor, to a person in distress, to a mistress, differ not more in 
their object than in the feelings they produce in the mind. We 
have not names to express the differences of these feelings, but 
every man is conscious of a difference. Yet, with all this differ- 
ence, they agree in being agreeable feelings. 

I know no exception to this rule, if we distinguish, as we 
ought, the feeling which naturally and necessarily attends the 
kind affection from those which accidentally, in certain circum- 
stances, it may produce. 

The parental affection is an agreeable feeling ; but it makes 
the misfortune or misbehaviour of a child give a deeper wound 
to the mind. Pity is an agreeable feeling, yet distress, which 
we are not able to relieve, may give a painful sympathy. Love 
to one of the other sex is an agreeable feeling ; but where it 
does not meet with a proper return, it may give the most pun- 
gent distress. 
I The joy and comfort of human life consists in the reciprocal 



OF BENEVOLENT AFFECTION IN GENERAL. \QQ 

exercise of kind affections, and without them life would be un- 
desirable J 

It has been observed by Lord Shaftesbury, and by many other 
judicious moralists, That even the epicure and the debauchee, 
who are thought to place all their happiness in the gratifications 
of sense, and to pursue these as their only object, can find no 
relish in solitary indulgences of this kind, but in those only that 
are mixed with social intercourse, and a reciprocal exchange of 
kind affections. 

Cicero has observed, that the word convivium, which in Latin 
signifies a feast, is not borrowed from eating or from drinking, but 
from that social intercourse which, being the chief part of such 
an entertainment, gives the name to the whole. 

Mutual kind affections are undoubtedly the balm of life, 'and 
of all the enjoyments common to good and bad men, are the 
chief. If a man had no person whom he loved or esteemed, no 
person who loved or esteemed him, how wretched must his con- 
dition be ! Surely a man capable of reflection would choose to 
pass out of existence, rather than to live in such a state. 

It has been, by the poets, represented as the state of some 
bloody and barbarous tyrants ; but poets are allowed to paint a 
little beyond the life. Atreus is represented as saying, Oderint 
dum metuunt. "I care not for their hatred, providing they 
dread my power." I believe there never was a man so disposed 
towards all mankind. The most odious tyrant that ever was, 
will have his favourites, whose affection he endeavours to deserve 
or to bribe, and to whom he bears some good will. 

[We may therefore lay it down as a principle, that all bene- 
volent affections are, in their nature, agreeable ; and that, next 
to a good conscience, to which they are always friendly, and 
never can be adverse, they make the capital part of human hap- 
piness^ 

[IV. Another ingredient essential to every benevolent affection, 
and from which it takes the name, is a desire of the good and 
happiness of the object.'] 

The object of benevolent affection, therefore, must be some 
being capable of happiness. When we speak of affection to a 
house, or to any inanimate thing, the word has a different mean- 
ing. For that which has no capacity of enjoyment, or of suf- 
fering, may be an object of liking or disgust, but cannot possibly 
be an object either of benevolent or malevolent affection. 

A thing may be desired either on its own account, or as the 
means in order to something else. That only can properly be 
called an object of desire, which is desired upon its own ac- 
count ; and it is only such desires that I call principles of action. 
When any thing is desired as the means only, there must be an 
end for which it is desired ; and the desire of the end is, in 
this case, the principle of action. The means are desired only 



170 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. III. 

as they tend to that end ; and if different, or even contrary means 
tended to the same end, they would be equally desired. 

On this account I consider those affections only as benevolent, 
where the good of the object is desired ultimately, and not as 
the means only, in order to something else. 

[To say that we desire the good of others, only in order to 
procure some pleasure or good to ourselves, is to say that there 
is no benevolent affection in human nature.] 

This, indeed, has been the opinion of some philosophers, both 
in ancient and in later times. I intend not to examine this opi- 
nion in this place, conceiving it proper to give that view of the 
principles of action in man, which appears to me to be just, 
before I examine the systems wherein they have been mistaken 
or misrepresented. 

I observe only at present, that [it appears as unreasonable to 
resolve all our benevolent affections into self-love, as it would be 
to resolve hunger and thirst into self-love.] 

These appetites are necessary for the preservation of the indi- 
vidual. Benevolent affections are no less necessary for the pre- 
servation of society among men, without which man would 
become an easy prey to the beasts of the field. 

We are placed in this world by the Author of our being, sur- 
rounded with many objects that are necessary or useful to us, 
and with many that may hurt us. We are led, not by reason 
and self-love only, but by many instincts, and appetites, and 
natural desires, to seek the former and to avoid the latter. 

But of all the things of this world, man may be the most 
useful, or the most hurtful to man. Every man is in the power 
of every man with whom he lives. Every man has power to 
do much good to his fellow-men, and to do more hurt. 

We cannot live without the society of men ; and it would be 
impossible to live in society, if men were not disposed to do 
much of that good to men, and but little of that hurt, which 
it is in their power to do. 

But how shall this end, so necessary to the existence of 
human society, and consequently to the existence of the human 
species, be accomplished ? 

[If we judge from analogy, we must conclude, that in this, 
as in other parts of our conduct, our rational principles are 
aided by principles of an inferior order, similar to those by 
which many brute*animals live in society with their species ; 
and that by means of such principles, that degree of regularity 
is observed, which we find in all societies of men, whether wise 
or foolish, virtuous or vicious.] 

The benevolent affections planted in human nature, appear 
therefore no less necessary for the preservation of the human 
species, than the appetites of hunger and thirst. 



171 
CHAPTEK IV. 

OF THE PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. 

I. Of natural affection. — Having premised these things in 
general concerning benevolent affections, I shall now attempt 
some enumeration of them. 

1. The first I mention is that of parents and children, and 
other near relations. 

This we commonly call natural affection. Every language 
has a name for it. It is common to us with most of the brute- 
animals ; and is variously modified in different animals, according 
as it is more or less necessary for the preservation of the species. 

Many of the insect tribe need no other care of parents, than 
that the eggs be laid in a proper place, where they shall have 
neither too little nor too much heat, and where the animal, as 
soon as it is hatched, shall find its natural food. This care the 
parent takes, and no more. 

In other tribes, the young must be lodged in some secret 
place, where they cannot be easily discovered by their enemies. 
They must be cherished by the warmth of the parent's body. 
They must be suckled, and fed at first with tender food ; at- 
tended in their excursions, and guarded from danger, till they 
have learned by experience, and by the example of their parents, 
to provide for their own subsistence and safety. With what 
assiduity and tender affection this is done by the parents, in 
every species that requires it, is well known. 

The eggs of the feathered tribe are commonly hatched by in- 
cubation of the dam, who leaves off at once her sprightly mo- 
tions and migrations, and confines herself to her solitary and 
painful task, cheered by the song of her mate upon a neigh- 
bouring bough, and sometimes fed by him, sometimes relieved 
in her incubation, while she gathers a scanty meal, and with 
the greatest dispatch returns to her post. 

The young birds of many species are so very tender and de- 
licate, that man, with all his wisdom and experience, would not 
be able to rear one to maturity. But the parents, without any 
experience, know perfectly how to rear sometimes a dozen or 
more at one brood, and to give every one its portion in due 
season. They know the food best suited to their delicate con- 
stitution, which is sometimes afforded by nature, sometimes 
must be cooked and half digested in the stomach of the parent. 

In some animals, nature hath furnished the female with a kind 
of second womb, into which the young retire occasionally, for 
food, warmth, and the conveniency of being carried about with 
the mother. 



172 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 

It would be endless to recount all the various ways in which 
the parental affection is expressed by brute-animals. 

[He must, in my apprehension, have a very strange complexion 
of understanding, who can survey the various ways in which the 
young of the various species are reared, without wonder, without 
pious admiration of that manifold Wisdom, which hath so skil- 
fully fitted means to ends, in such an infinite variety of ways.] 

In all the brute-animals we are acquainted with, the end of 
the parental affection is completely answered hi a short time ; 
and then it ceases as if it had never been. 

II. Duration of parental affection limited in inferior animals ; 
not so in the human species. — [The infancy of man is longer and 
more helpless than that of any other animal. The parental affec- 
tion is necessary for many years ; it is highly useful through 
life ; and therefore it terminates only with life. It extends to 
children's children without any diminution of its force.] 

How common is it to see a young woman, in the gayest period 
of life, who has spent her days in mirth, and her nights in pro- 
found sleep, without solicitude or care, all at once transformed 
into the careful, the solicitous, the watchful nurse of her dear 
infant : doing nothing by day but gazing upon it, and serving 
• it in the meanest offices ; by night, depriving herself of sound 
sleep for months, that it may lie safe in her arms. Forgetful of 
herself, her whole care is centred in this little object. 

Such a sudden transformation of her whole habits, and occu- 
pation, and turn of mind, if we did not see it every day, would 
appear a more wonderful metamorphosis than any that Ovid has 
described. 

This, however, is the work of nature, and not the effect of 
reason and reflection. For we see it in the good and in the bad, 
in the most thoughtless, as well as in the thoughtful. 

Nature has assigned different departments to the father and 
mother in rearing their offspring. This may be seen in many 
brute-animals ; and that it is so in the human species, was long 
ago observed by Socrates, and most beautifully illustrated by 
him, as we learn from Xenophon's " (Economics." The pa- 
rental affection in the different sexes is exactly adapted to the 
office assigned to each. The father would make an awkward 
nurse to a new-born child, and the mother too indulgent a guar- 
dian. But both act with propriety and grace in their proper 
sphere. 

It is very remarkable, that when the office of rearing a child 
is transferred from the parent to another person, nature seems to 
transfer the affection along with the office. A wet nurse, or 
even a dry nurse, has commonly the same affection for her nurs- 
ling as if she had borne it. The fact is so well known, that 



OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. J 73 

nothing needs be said to confirm it ; and it seems to be the work 
of nature. 

III. Parental affection the effect of our natural constitution. — 
Our affections are not immediately in our power, as our outward 
actions are. Nature has directed them to certain objects. We 
may do kind offices without affection ; but we cannot create an 
affection which nature has not given. 

Reason might teach a man that his children are particularly 
committed to his care by the providence of God, and, on that 
account, that he ought to attend to them as his particular charge ; 
but reason could not teach him to love them more than other 
children of equal merit, or to be more afflicted for their misfor- 
tunes or misbehaviour. 

[It is evident, therefore, that that peculiar sensibility of affec- 
tion, with regard to his own children, is not the effect of rea- 
soning or reflection, but the effect of that constitution which 
nature has given him.] 

There are some affections which we may call rational, because 
they are grounded upon an opinion of merit in the object. The 
parental affection is not of this kind. For though a man's affec- 
tion to his child may be increased by merit, and diminished by 
demerit, I think no man will say, that it took its rise from an 
opinion of merit. It is not opinion that creates the affection^ 
but affection often creates opinion. It is apt to pervert the 
judgment, and create an opinion of merit where there is none. 

The absolute necessity of this parental affection, in order to 
the continuance of the human species, is so apparent, that there 
is no need of arguments to prove it. The rearing of a child from 
its birth to maturity requires so much time and care, and such 
infinite attentions, that, if it were to be done merely from consi- 
derations of reason and duty, and were not sweetened by affec- 
tion in parents, nurses and guardians, there is reason to doubt, 
whether one child in ten thousand would ever be reared. 

IV. Further uses of parental affection. — [Beside the absolute 
necessity of this part of the human constitution to the preserva- 
tion of the species, its utility is very great, (1) for tempering the 
giddiness and impetuosity of youth, and (2) improving its know- 
ledge by the prudence and experience of age, for (3) encouraging 
industry and frugality in the parents, in order to provide for 
their children, (4) for the solace and support of parents under the 
infirmities of old age ; not to mention that (5) it probably gave 
rise to the first civil governments.] 

It does not appear that the parental, and other family affec- 
tions, are, in general, either too strong or too weak for answer- 
ing their end. If they were too weak, parents would be most 
apt to err on the side of undue severity ; if too strong, of undue 



174 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 

indulgence. As they are in fact, I believe no man can say, that 
the errors are more general on one side than on the other. 

"When these affections are exerted according to their intention, 
under the direction of wisdom and prudence, the economy of 
such a family is a most delightful spectacle, and furnishes the 
most agreeable and affecting subject to the pencil of the painter, 
and to the pen of the orator and poet. 

V. 2. The next benevolent affection I mention is gratitude to 
benefactors. 

That good offices are, by the very constitution of our nature, 
apt to produce good-will towards the benefactor, in good and 
bad men, in the savage and in the civilized, cannot surely be 
"denied by any one, in the least acquainted with human nature. 

The danger of perverting a man's judgment by good deeds, 
where he ought to have no bias, is so well known, that it is dis- 
honourable in judges, in witnesses, in electors to offices of trust, 
to accept of them ; and, in all civilized nations, they are, in such 
cases, prohibited, as the means of corruption. 

Those who would corrupt the sentence of a judge, the testi- 
mony of a witness, or the vote of an elector, know well, that they 
must not make a bargain, or stipulate what is to be done in 
return. This would shock every man who has the least preten- 
sion to morals. If the person can only be prevailed upon to 
accept the good office, as a testimony of pure and disinterested 
friendship, it is left to work upon his gratitude. He finds him- 
self under a kind of moral obligation to consider the cause of his 
benefactor and friend in the most favourable light. He finds it 
easier to justify his conduct to himself, by favouring the interest 
of his benefactor, than by opposing it. 

Thus the principle of gratitude is supposed, even in the nature 
of a bribel Bad men know how to make this natural principle 
the most effectual means of corruption. The very best things 
may be turned to a bad use. But the natural tendency of this 
principle, and the intention of nature in planting it in the human 
breast, are, evidently, to promote good-will among men, and to 
give to good offices the power of multiplying their kind, like 
seed sown in the earth, which brings a return, with increase. 

Whether there be, or be not, in the more sagacious brutes, 
something that may be called gratitude, I will not dispute. We 
must allow this important difference between their gratitude and 
that of the human kind, that, in the last, the mind of the bene- 
factor is chiefly regarded, in the first, the external action only. 
A brute-animal will be as kindly affected to him who feeds it in 
order to kill and eat it as to him who does it from affection. 

A man may be justly entitled to our gratitude, for an office 
that is useful, though it be, at the same time, disagreeable ; and 



OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. J^5 

not only for doing, but for forbearing what he had a right to do. 
Among men, it is not every beneficial office that claims our 
gratitude, but such only as are not due to us in justice. A favour 
alone gives a claim to gratitude ; and a favour must be something 
more than justice requires. It does not appear that brutes have 
any conception of justice. They can neither distinguish hurt 
from injury, nor a favour from a good office that is due. 

VI. 3, A third natural benevolent affection is, pity and com- 
passion towards the distressed. 

Of all persons, those in distress stand most in need of our good 
offices. And, for that reason, the Author of Nature hath planted 
in the breast of every human creature a powerful advocate to 
plead their cause. 

In man, and in some other animals, there are signs of distress, 
which nature hath both taught them to use, and taught all men 
to understand without any interpreter. These natural signs are 
more eloquent than language ; they move our hearts, and produce 
a sympathy, and a desire to give relief. 

/ There are few hearts so hard, but great distress will conquer 
their anger, their indignation, and every malevolent affection. | 

We sympathise even with the traitor and with the assassin, 
when we see him led to execution. It is only self-preservation, 
and the public good, that makes us reluctantly assent to his being 
cut off from among men. 

The practice of the Canadian nations toward their prisoners 
would tempt one to think, that they have been able to root out 
the principle of compassion from their nature. But this, I 
apprehend, would be a rash conclusion. It is only a part of the 
prisoners of war that they devote to a cruel death. This gratifies 
the revenge of the women and children who have lost their hus- 
bands and fathers in the war. The other prisoners are kindly 
used, and adopted as brethren.* 

Compassion with bodily pain is no doubt weakened among 
these savages, because they are trained from their infancy to be 
superior to death, and to every degree of pain ; and he is thought 
unworthy of the name of a man, who cannot defy his tormentors, 
and sing his death-song in the midst of the most cruel tortures. 
He who can do this, is honoured as a brave man, though an 
enemy. But he must perish in the experiment. 

A Canadian has the most perfect contempt for every man who 
thinks pain an intolerable evil. And nothing is so apt to stifle 
compassion as contempt, and an apprehension, that the evil suf- 
fered is nothing but what ought to be manfully borne. 

It must also be observed, that savages set no bounds to their 
revenge. Those who find no protection in laws and government 

* This illustration has lost its propriety by the extension of civilization in 
Canada. 



17(3 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 

never think themselves safe, but in the destruction of their enemy. 
And one of the chief advantages of civil government is, that it 
tempers the cruel passion of revenge, and opens the heart to 
compassion with every human woe. 

It seems to be false religion only, that is able to check the 
tear of compassion. 

We are told, that, in Portugal and Spain, a man condemned 
to be burned as an obstinate heretic, meets with no compassion, 
even from the multitude. It is true, they are taught to look 
upon him as an enemy to God, and doomed to hell -fire. But 
should not this very circumstance move compassion ? Surely it 
would, if they were not taught, that, in this case, it is a crime to 
show compassion, or even to feel it.* 

VII. 4. A fourth benevolent affection is, esteem of the wise 
and the good. 

The worst men cannot avoid feeling this in some degree. 
Esteem, veneration, devotion, are different degrees of the same 
affection. The perfection of wisdom, power and goodness, which 
belongs only to the Almighty, is the object of the last. 

It may be a doubt, whether this principle of esteem, as well as 
that of gratitude, ought to be ranked in the order of animal 
principles, or if they ought not rather to be placed in a higher 
order. They are certainly more allied to the rational nature than 
the others that have been named ; nor is it evident, that there is 
any thing in brute-animals that deserves the same name. 

There is indeed a subordination in a herd of cattle, and in a 
nock of sheep, which, I believe, is determined by strength and 
courage, as it is among savage tribes of men. I have been 
informed, that, in a pack of hounds, a stanch hound acquires a 
degree of esteem in the pack ; so that, when the dogs are wan- 
dering in quest of the scent, if he opens, the pack immediately 
closes in with him, when they would not regard the opening 
of a dog of no reputation. This is something like a respect to 
wisdom. 

But I have placed esteem of the wise and good in the order of 
animal principles, not from any persuasion that it is to be found 
in brute-animals, but because, I think, it appears in the most 
unimproved and in the most degenerate part of our species, even 
in those in whom we hardly perceive any exertion, either of 
reason or virtue. 

I will not, however, dispute with any man who thinks that it 
deserves a more honourable name than that of an animal prin- 
ciple. It is of small importance what name we give it, if we are 
satisfied that there is such a principle in the human constitution. 

VIII. 5. Friendship is another benevolent affection. 

* The infamous ceremony of the Auto de fe, here alluded to, was abolished 
by Napoleon Buonaparte in 1 808. 



OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. J 77 

Of this we have some instances famous in history : few indeed ; 
but sufficient to show, that human nature is susceptible of that 
extraordinary attachment, sympathy and affection, to one or a 
few persons, which the ancients thought alone worthy of the 
name of friendship. 

The Epicureans found it very difficult to reconcile the exist- 
ence of friendship to the principles of their sect. They were not 
so bold as to deny its existence. They even boasted that there 
had been more attachments of that kind between Epicureans 
than in any other sect. But the difficulty was, to account for 
real friendship upon Epicurean principles. They went into dif- 
ferent hypotheses upon this point, three of which are explained 
by Torquatus the Epicurean, in Cicero's book, " De Finibus." 

Cicero, in his reply to Torquatus, examines all the three, and 
shows them all to be either inconsistent with the nature of true 
friendship, or inconsistent with the fundamental principles of the 
Epicurean sect. 

[As to the friendship which the Epicureans boasted of among 
those of their sect, Cicero does not question the fact, but ob- 
serves, that, as there are many whose practice is worse than their 
principles, so there are some whose principles are worse than 
their practice, and that the bad principles of these Epicureans 
were overcome by the goodness of their nature.] 

IX. 6. Among the benevolent affections, the passion of love 
between the sexes cannot be overlooked. 

Although it is commonly the theme of poets, it is not un- 
worthy of the pen of the philosopher, as it is a most important 
part of the human constitution. 

It is no doubt made up of various ingredients, as many other 
principles of action are, but it certainly cannot exist without a 
very strong benevolent affection toward its object; in whom it 
finds, or conceives, every thing that is amiable and excellent, 
and even something more than human. I consider it here, only 
as a benevolent affection natural to man. And that it is so, no 
man can doubt who ever felt its force. 

It is evidently intended by nature to direct a man in the 
choice of a mate, with whom he desires to live, and to rear an 
offspring. 

It has effectually secured this end in all ages, and in every 
state of society. 

[The passion of love, and the parental affection, are counter- 
parts to each other ; and when they are conducted with pru- 
I dence, and meet with a proper return, are the source of all do- 
mestic felicity, the greatest, next to that of a good conscience, 
■which this world affords.] 

As, in the present state of things, pain often dwells near to 
pleasure, and sorrow to joy, it needs not be thought strange, 



178 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 

that a passion, fitted and intended by nature to yield the greatest 
worldly felicity, should, by being ill-regulated, or wrong directed, 
prove the occasion of the most pungent distress. 

But its joys and its griefs, its different modifications in the 
different sexes, and its influence upon the character of both, 
though very important subjects, are fitter to be sung than said ; 
and I leave them to those who have slept upon the two-topped 
Parnassus. 

X. 7. The last benevolent affection I shall mention is, what 
we commonly call public spirit, that is, an affection to any com- 
munity to which we belong. 

If there be any man quite destitute of this affection, he must 
be as great a monster as a man born with two heads. Its effects 
are manifest in the whole of human life, and in the history of 
all nations. 

The situation of a great part of mankind, indeed, is such, 
that their thoughts and views must be confined within a very 
narrow sphere, and be very much engrossed by their private 
concerns. "With regard to an extensive public, such as a state 
or nation, they are like a drop to the ocean, so that they have 
rarely an opportunity of acting with a view to it. 

In many, whose actions may affect the public, and whose rank 
and station lead them to think of it, private passions may be an 
overmatch for public spirit. All that can be inferred from this 
is, that their public spirit is weak, not that it does not exist. 

If a man wishes well to the public, and is ready to do good to 
it rather than hurt, when it costs him nothing, he has some affec- 
tion to it, though it may be scandalously weak in degree. 

I believe every man has it in one degree or another. What 
man is there who does not resent satirical reflections upon his 
country, or upon any community of which he is a member ? 

Whether the affection be to a college or to a cloister, to a 
clan or to a profession, to a party or to a nation, it is public- 
spirit. These affections differ, not in kind, but in the extent 
of their object. 

The object extends as our connexions extend; and a sense of 
the connexion carries the affection along with it to every com- 
munity to which we can apply the pronouns we and our. 

Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace, 
His country next, and then all human race. — Pope. 

Even in the misanthrope, this affection is not extinguished. 
It is overpowered by the apprehension he has of the worthless- 
ness, the baseness, and the ingratitude of mankind. Convince 
him, that there is any amiable quality in the species, and imme- 
diately his philanthropy revives, and rejoices to find an object on 
which it can exert itself. 



OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. J 79 

XL Necessity for submitting public spirit to the control of 
reason and virtue, evident. — [Public spirit has this in common 
with every subordinate principle of action, that, when it is not 
under the government of reason and virtue, it may produce 
much evil as well as good.] Yet, where there is least of reason 
and virtue to regulate it, its good far overbalances its ill. 

[It sometimes kindles or inflames animosities between com- 
munities, or contending parties, and makes them treat each 
other with little regard to justice. It kindles wars between 
nations, and makes them destroy one another for trifling causes.] 
But, without it, society could not subsist, and every community 
would be a rope of sand. 

When under the direction of reason and virtue, it is the very 
image of God in the soul. It diffuses its benign influence as far 
as its power extends, and participates in the happiness of God, 
and of the whole creation. 

These are the benevolent affections which appear to me to be 
parts of the human constitution. 

If any one thinks the enumeration incomplete, and that there 
are natural benevolent affections, which are not included under 
any of those that have been named, I shall very readily listen 
to such a correction, being sensible that such enumerations are 
very often incomplete. 

If others should think that any, or all, the affections I have 
named are acquired by education, or by habits and associations 
grounded on self-love, and are not original parts of our consti- 
tution ; this is a point upon which, indeed, there has been much 
subtile disputation in ancient and modern times, and which, I 
believe, must be determined from what a man, by careful reflec- 
tion, may feel in himself, rather than from what he observes in 
others. But I decline entering into this dispute, till I shall 
have explained that principle of action which we commonly call 
self-love. 

XII. I shall conclude this subject with some reflections upon 
the benevolent affections. 

[The first is, that all of them, in as far as they are benevolent, 
in which view only I consider them, agree very much in the con- 
duct they dispose us to, with regard to their objects.] 

They dispose us to do them good as far as we have power and 
opportunity ; to wish them well, when we can do them no good ; 
to judge favourably, and often partially, of them ; to sympathise 
with them in their afflictions and calamities ; and to rejoice with 
them in their happiness and good fortune. 

It is impossible that there can be benevolent affection without 
sympathy, both with the good and bad fortune of the object; 
and it appears to be impossible that there can be sympathy 
without benevolent affection. Men do not sympathise with one 

n 2 



180 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. IV. 

whom they hate ; nor even with one to whose good or ill they 
are perfectly indifferent. 

We may sympathise with a perfect stranger, or even with an 
enemy whom we see in distress ; but this is the effect of pity ; 
and if we did not pity him, we should not sympathise with him. 

I take notice of this the rather, because a very ingenious 
author* in his " Theory of Moral Sentiments," gives a very dif- 
ferent account of the origin of sympathy. It appears to me to be 
the effect of benevolent affection, and to be inseparable from it. 

[A second reflection is, that the constitution of our nature very 
powerfully invites us to cherish and cultivate in our minds the 
benevolent affections^ 

The agreeable feeling which always attends them as a present 
reward, appears to be intended by nature for this purpose. 

Benevolence, from its nature, composes the mind, warms the 
heart, enlivens the whole frame, and brightens every feature of 
the countenance. It may justly be said to be medicinal both to 
soul and body. We are bound to it by duty ; we are invited to 
it by interest ; and because both these cords are often feeble, we 
have natural kind affections to aid them in their operation, and 
supply their defects; and these affections are joined with a 
manly pleasure in their exertion. 

[A third reflection is, that the natural benevolent affections 
furnish the most irresistible proof, that the Author of our nature 
intended that we should live in society, and do good to our fellow - 
men as we have opportunity ; since this great and important part 
of the human constitution has a manifest relation to society, and 
can have no exercise nor use in a solitary state.] 

[The last reflection is, that the different principles of action 
have different degrees of dignity, and rise one above another in 
our estimation, when we make them objects of contemplation.] 

We ascribe no dignity to instincts or to habits. They lead us 
only to admire the wisdom of the Creator, in adapting them so 
perfectly to the manner of life of the different animals in which 
they are found. Much the same may be said of appetites. They 
serve rather for use than ornament. 

i The desires of knowledge, of power, and of esteem, rise higher 
in our estimation, and we consider them as giving dignity and 
ornament to man.*- The actions proceeding from them, though 
not properly virtuous, are manly and respectable, and claim a 
just superiority over those that proceed merely from appetite. 
This, I think, is the uniform judgment of mankind. 

If we apply the same kind of judgment to our benevolent 
affections, they appear not only manly and respectable, but 
amiable in a high degree. 

They are amiable even in brute-animals. We love the meek- 

* Adam Smith. 



OF PARTICULAR BENEVOLENT AFFECTIONS. JgJ 

ness of the lamb, the gentleness of the dove, the affection of a 
dog to his master. We cannot, without pleasure, observe the 
timid ewe, who never showed the least degree of courage in her 
own defence, become valiant and intrepid in defence of her lamb, 
and boldly assault those enemies, the very sight of whom was 
wont to put her to flight. 

How pleasant is it to see the family economy of a pair of 
little birds in rearing their tender offspring ; the conjugal affec- 
tion and fidelity of the parents ; their cheerful toil and industry 
in providing food to their family ; their sagacity in concealing 
their habitation ; the arts they use, often at the peril of their 
own lives, to decoy hawks, and other enemies, from their dwel- 
ling-place, and the affliction they feel when some unlucky boy 
has robbed them of the dear pledges of their affection, and frus- 
trated all their hopes of their rising family ? 

If kind affection be amiable in brutes, it is not less so in our 
own species. Even the external signs of it have a powerful 
charm. 

B§F Every one knows that a person of accomplished good 
breeding, charms every one he converses with. And what is this 
good breeding ? If we analyse it, we shall find it to be made 
up of looks, gestures, and speeches, which are the natural signs 
of benevolence and good affection. { He who has got the habit 
of using these signs with propriety, and without meanness, is a 
well-bred and a polite man. J 

What is that beauty in the features of the face, particularly of 
the fair sex, which all men love and admire ? I believe it con- 
sists chiefly in the features which indicate good affections. ! Every 
indication of meekness, gentleness, and benignity, is a beauty. \ 
On the contrary, every feature that indicates pride, passion, envy, 
and malignity, is a deformity. 

Kind affections, therefore, are amiable in brutes. Even the 
signs and shadows of them are highly attractive in our own spe- 
cies. Indeed they are the joy and the comfort of human life, 
not to good men only, but even to the vicious and dissolute. 
( Without society, and the intercourse of kind affection, man is 
a gloomy, melancholy and joyless being.] His mind oppressed 
with cares and fears, he cannot enjoy the balm of sound sleep : 
in constant dread of impending danger, he starts at the rustling 
of a leaf. His ears are continually upon the stretch, and every 
zephyr brings some sound that alarms him. 

When he enters into society, and feels security in the good 
affection of friends and neighbours, it is then only that his fear 
vanishes, and his mind is at ease. His courage is raised, his un- 
derstanding is enlightened, and his heart dilates with joy. 

IMF Human society may be compared to a heap of embers, 
which when placed asunder, can retain neither their light nor 



Igg ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. V. 

heat, amidst the surrounding elements ; but when brought toge- 
ther they mutually give heat and light to each other ; the flame 
breaks forth, and not only defends itself, but subdues every thing 
around it, 

[The security, the happiness, and the strength of human so- 
ciety, spring solely from the reciprocal benevolent affections of 
its members.] 

The benevolent affections, though they be all honourable and 
lovely, are not all equally so. There is a subordination among 
them ; and the honour we pay to them generally corresponds to 
the extent of their object. 

The good husband, the good father, the good friend, the good 
neighbour, we honour as a good man, worthy of our love and 
affection. But the man in whom these more private affections 
are swallowed up in zeal for the good of his country, and of 
mankind, who goes about doing good, and seeks opportunities of 
being useful to his species, we revere as more than a good man, 
as a hero, as a good angel. 



CHAPTER V. 

OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. 



I. Of emulation and resentment. — Are there, in the consti- 
tution of man, any affections that may be called malevolent ? 
What are they ? And what is their use and end ? 

To me there seem to be two, which we may call by that name. 
[They are emulation and resentment. These I take to be parts 
of the human constitution, given us by our Maker for good ends, 
and, when properly directed and regulated, of excellent use.] 
But, as their excess or abuse, to which human nature is very 
prone, is the source and spring of all the malevolence that 
is to be found among men, it is on that account I call them 
malevolent. 

If any man thinks that they deserve a softer name, since they 
may be exercised according to the intention of nature, without 
malevolence, to this I have no objection. 

By emulation, I mean, a desire of superiority to our rivals in 
any pursuit, accompanied with an uneasiness at being surpassed. 

Human life has justly been compared to a race. The prize is 
superiority in one kind or another. But the species or forms (if 
I may use the expression) of superiority among men are infinitely 
diversified. 

There is no man so contemptible in his own eyes, as to hinder 
him from entering the lists in one form or another ; and he will 
always find competitors to rival him in his own way. 



OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. Jg3 

We see emulation among brute-animals. Dogs and horses 
contend each with his kind in the race. Many animals of the 
gregarious kind contend for superiority in their flock or herd, 
and show manifest signs of jealousy when others pretend to 
rival them. 

The emulation of the brute-animals is mostly confined to swift- 
ness, or strength, or favour with their females. But the emula- 
tion of the human kind has a much wider field. 

In every profession, and in every accomplishment of body or 
mind, real or imaginary, there are rivalships. Literary men 
rival one another in literary abilities. Artists in their several 
arts. The fair sex in their beauty and attractions, and in the 
respect paid them by the other sex. 

In every political society, from a petty corporation up to the 
national administration, there is a rivalship for power and in- 
fluence. 

Men have a natural desire of power without respect to the 
power of others. This we call ambition. But the desire of 
superiority, either in pow T er, or in any thing we think worthy of 
estimation, has a respect to rivals, and is what we properly call 
emulation. 

The stronger the desire is, the more pungent will be the un- 
easiness of being found behind, and the mind will be the more 
hurt by this humiliating view. 

IT. [Emulation has a manifest tendency to improvement. 
Without it life w T ould stagnate, and the discoveries of art and 
genius would be at a stand.] This principle produces a constant 
fermentation in society, by which, though dregs may be pro- 
duced, the better part is purified and exalted to a perfection 
which it could not otherwise attain. 

We have not sufficient data for a comparison of the good and 
bad efTects which this principle actually produces in society ; but 
there is ground to think of this, as of other natural principles, 
that the good overbalances the ill. As far as it is under the 
dominion of reason and virtue, its effects are always good ; when 
left to be guided by passion and folly, they are often very bad. 

Reason directs us to strive for superiority, only in things that 
have real excellence, otherwise we spend our labour for that 
which proflteth not. To value ourselves for superiority in things 
that have no real w r orth, or none, compared with what they cost, 
is to be vain of our own folly ; and to be uneasy at the supe- 
riority of others in such things, is no less ridiculous. 

Reason directs us to strive for superiority only in things in 
our power, and attainable by our exertion, otherwise we shall be 
like the frog in the fable, who swelled herself till she burst, in 
order to equal the ox in magnitude. 

To check all desire of things not attainable, and every uneasy 



134 ESSAY III.- PART II. CHAP. V. 

thought in the want of them, is an obvious dictate of prudence, 
as well as of virtue and religion. 

If emulation be regulated by such maxims of reason, and all 
undue partiality to ourselves be laid aside, it will be a powerful 
principle of our improvement, without hurt to any other person. 
It will give strength to the nerves, and vigour to the mind, in 
every noble and manly pursuit. 

III. [But dismal are its effects, when it is not under the direc- 
tion of reason and virtue. It has often the most malignant 
influence on men's opinions, on their affections, and on their 
actions.] 

It is an old observation, that affection follows opinion ; and it 
is undoubtedly true in many cases. A man cannot be grateful 
without the opinion of a favour done him. He cannot have 
deliberate resentment without the opinion of an injury ; nor 
esteem without the opinion of some estimable quality ; nor com- 
passion without the opinion of suffering. 

But it is no less true, that opinion sometimes follows affection, 
not that it ought, but that it actually does so, by giving a false 
bias to our judgment. We are apt to be partial to our friends, 
and still more to ourselves. 

Hence the desire of superiority leads men to put an undue 
estimation upon those things wherein they excel, or think they 
excel. And, by this means, pride may feed itself upon the very 
dregs of human nature. 

The same desire of superiority may lead men to undervalue 
those things wherein they either despair of excelling, or care not 
to make the exertion necessary for that end. The grapes are 
sour, said the fox, when he saw them beyond his reach. The 
same principle leads men to detract from the merit of others, and 
to impute their brightest actions to mean or bad motives. 

He who runs a race feels uneasiness at seeing another out- 
strip him. This is uncorrupted nature, and the work of God 
within him. But this uneasiness may produce either of two very 
different effects. It may incite him to make more vigorous exer- 
tions, and to strain every nerve to get before his rival. This is 
fair and honest emulation. This is the effect it is intended to 
produce. [But if he has not fairness and candour of heart, he 
will look with an evil eye upon his competitor, and will endea- 
vour to trip him, or to throw a stumbling-block in his way. This 
is pure envy, the most malignant passion that can lodge in the 
human breast ; which devours, as its natural food, the fame and 
the happiness of those who are most deserving of our esteem.] 

If there be, in some men, a proneness to detract from the 
character, even of persons unknown or indifferent, in others an 
avidity to hear and to propagate scandal, to what principle in 
human nature must w r e ascribe these qualities ? The failings of 



OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. 1g5 

others surely add nothing to our worth, nor are they, in them- 
selves, a pleasant subject of thought or of discourse. But they 
flatter pride, by giving an opinion of our superiority to those 
from whom we detract. 

Is it not possible, that the same desire of superiority may have 
some secret influence upon those who love to display their elo- 
quence in declaiming upon the corruption of human nature, and 
the wickedness, fraud and insincerity of mankind in general ? It 
ought always to be taken for granted, that the declaimer is an 
exception to the general rule, otherwise he would rather choose, 
even for his own sake, to draw a veil over the nakedness of his 
species. But hoping that his audience will be so civil as not to 
include him in the black description, he rises superior by the 
depression of the species, and stands alone, like Noah in the an- 
tediluvian world. This looks like envy against the human race. 

IV. Effects of emulation in brute-animals. — It would be end- 
less, and no ways agreeable, to enumerate all the evils and all the 
vices which passion and folly beget upon emulation. Here, as 
in most cases, the corruption of the best things is the worst. [In 
brute-animals, emulation has little matter to work upon, and its 
effects, good or bad, are few.] It may produce battles of cocks 
and battles of bulls, and little else that is observable. But in 
mankind, it has an infinity of matter to work upon, and its good 
or bad effects, according as it is well or ill regulated and directed, 
multiply in proportion. 

[The conclusion to be drawn from what has been said upon 
this principle is, That emulation, as far as it is a part of our 
constitution, is highly useful and important in society ; that in 
the wise and good, it produces the best effects without any harm ; 
but in the foolish and vicious, it is the parent of a great part of 
the evils of life, and of the most malignant vices that stain human 
nature.] 

We are next to consider resentment. 

V. Definition of resentment. — [Nature disposes us, when we 
are hurt, to resist and retaliate. Besides the bodily pain occa- 
sioned by the hurt, the mind is ruffled, and a desire raised to 
retaliate upon the author of the hurt or injury. This, in general, 
is what we call anger or resentment.'] 

A very important distinction is made by Bishop Butler between 
sudden resentment, which is a blind impulse arising from our 
constitution, and that which is deliberate. The first may be 
raised by hurt of any kind ; but the last can only be raised by 
injury, real or conceived. 

The same distinction is made by Lord Karnes, in his " Ele- 
ments of Criticism." What Butler calls sudden, he calls in- 
stinctive. 

We have not, in common language, different names for these 



186 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. V. 

different kinds of resentment ; but the distinction is very neces- 
sary, in order to our having just notions of this part of the 
human constitution. It corresponds perfectly with the distinc- 
tion I have made between the animal and rational principles of 
action. [For this sudden or instinctive resentment, is an animal 
principle common to us with brute-animals. But that resentment 
which the authors I have named call deliberate, must fall under 
the class of rational principles.] 

It is to be observed, however, that, by referring it to that 
class, I do not mean, that it is always kept within the bounds 
that reason prescribes, but only that it is proper to man as a 
reasonable being, capable, by his rational faculties, of distin- 
guishing between hurt and injury ; a distinction which no brute 
animal can make. 

Both these kinds of resentment are raised, whether the hurt 
or injury be done to ourselves, or to those we are interested in. 

Wherever there is any benevolent affection towards others, we 
resent their wrongs, in proportion to the strength of our affec- 
tion. Pity and sympathy with the sufferer, produce resentment 
against the author of the suffering, as naturally as concern for 
ourselves produces resentment of our own wrongs. 

VI. I shall first consider that resentment which I call animal, 
which Butler calls sudden, and Lord Karnes instinctive. 

In every animal to which Nature hath given the power of 
hurting its enemy, we see an endeavour to retaliate the ill that 
is done to it. Even a mouse will bite when it cannot run away. 

Perhaps there may be some animals to whom nature hath 
given no offensive weapon. To such, anger and resentment 
would be of no use ; and I believe we shall find, that they never 
show any sign of it. But there are few of this kind. 

Some of the more sagacious animals can be provoked to fierce 
anger, and retain it long. Many of them show great animosity 
in defending their young, who hardly show any in defending 
themselves. Others resist every assault made upon the flock or 
herd to which they belong. Bees defend their hive, wild beasts 
their den, and birds their nest. 

[This sudden resentment operates in a similar manner in men 
and in brutes, and appears to be given by nature to both for the 
same end, namely, for defence, even in cases ivhere there is no 
time for deliberation.] IglF It may be compared to that natural 
instinct, by which a man, who has lost his balance and begins to 
fall, makes a sudden and violent effort to recover himself, with- 
out any intention or deliberation. 

In such efforts, men often exert a degree of muscular strength 
beyond what they are able to exert by a calm determination of 
the will, and thereby save themselves from many a dangerous fall. 

By a like violent and sudden impulse, nature prompts us to 



OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. J g7 

repel hurt upon the cause of it, whether it be man or beast. 
The instinct before mentioned is solely defensive, and is prompted 
by fear. This sudden resentment is offensive, and is prompted 
by anger, but with a view to defence. 

[M an, in his present state, is surrounded with so many dangers 
from his own species, from brute-animals, from every thing 
around him, that he has need of some defensive armour that 
shall always be ready in the moment of danger. His reason is 
of great use for this purpose, when there is time to apply it. 
But, in many cases, the mischief would be done before reason 
could think of the means of preventing it.] 

[The wisdom of nature hath provided two means to supply 
this defect of our reason. (1) One of these is the instinct before 
mentioned, by which the body, upon the appearance of danger, 
is instantly, and without thought or intention, put in that pos- 
ture which is proper for preventing the danger, or lessening it.] 
t^F Thus, we wink hard when our eyes are threatened ; we bend 
the body to avoid a stroke ; we make a sudden effort to recover 
our balance, when in danger of falling. By such means we are 
guarded from many dangers which our reason would come too 
late to prevent. 

[(2) But as offensive arms are often the surest means of defence, 
by deterring the enemy from an assault, nature hath also pro- 
vided man, and other animals, with this kind of defence, by that 
sudden resentment of which we now speak, which outruns the 
quickest determinations of reason, and takes fire in an instant, 
threatening the enemy with retaliation.] 

[The first of these principles {instinct) operates upon the 
defender only ; but this {resentment) operates both upon the 
defender and the assailant, inspiring the former with courage 
and animosity, and striking terror into the latter.] ggp" It pro- 
claims to all assailants, what our ancient Scottish kings did 
upon their coins, by the emblem of a thistle, with this motto, 
" Nemo me impune lacesset." By this, in innumerable cases, 
men and beasts are deterred from doing hurt, and others thereby 
secured from suffering it. 

But as resentment supposes an object on whom we may retali- 
ate, how comes it to pass, that in brutes very often, and some- 
times in our own species, we see it wreaked upon inanimate 
things, which are incapable of suffering by it ? 

Perhaps it might be a sufficient answer to this question, That 
nature acts by general laws, which, in some particular cases may 
go beyond, or fall short of their intention, though they be ever 
so well adapted to it in general. 

But I confess it seems to me impossible, that there should be 
resentment against a thing, which at that very moment is consi- 
dered as inanimate, and consequently incapable either of intend- 



Igg ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. V. 

ing hurt, or of being punished. For what can be more absurd, 
than to be angry with the knife for cutting me, or with the 
weight for falling upon my toes ? There must therefore, I con- 
ceive, be some momentary notion or conception that the object 
of our resentment is capable of punishment ; and if it be natural, 
before reflection, to be angry with things inanimate, it seems 
to be a necessary consequence, that it is natural to think that 
they have life and feeling. 

VII. Children and rude nations generally ascribe life and 
intelligence to inanimate things. — [Several phenomena in human 
nature lead us to conjecture that, in the earliest period of life, 
we are apt to think every object about us to be animated. Judg- 
ing of them by ourselves, we ascribe to them the feelings we are 
conscious of in ourselves.] So we see a little girl judges of her 
doll and of her play-things. And so we see rude nations judge 
of the heavenly bodies, of the elements, and of the sea, rivers, 
and fountains.* 

If this be so, it ought not to be said, that by reason and ex- 
perience, we learn to ascribe life and intelligence to things which 
we before considered as inanimate. It ought rather to be said, 
[That by reason and experience we learn that certain things are 
inanimate, to which at first we ascribed life and intelligence.] 

If this be true, it is less surprising that, before reflection, we 
should for a moment relapse into this prejudice of our early 
years, and treat things as if they had life, which we once believed 
to have it. 

It does not much affect our present argument, whether this 
be, or be not the cause, why a dog pursues and gnashes at the 
stone that hurt him ; and why a man in a passion, for losing at 
play, sometimes wreaks his vengeance on the cards or dice. 

Jt is not strange that a blind animal impulse should sometimes 
lose its proper direction. In brutes this has no bad consequence ; 
in men the least ray of reflection corrects it, and shows its 
absurdity. 

[It is sufficiently evident, upon the whole, that this sudden, or 
animal resentment, is intended by nature for our defence. It 
prevents mischief by the fear of punishment.] KgF It is a kind 
of penal statute, promulgated by nature, the execution of which 
is committed to the sufferer. 

It may be expected indeed, that one who judges in his own 
cause, will be disposed to seek more than an equitable redress. 
But this disposition is checked by the resentment of the other 
party. 

Yet, in the state of nature, injuries once begun, will often be 
reciprocated between the parties, until mortal enmity is pro- 

* Vide sec. 1. chap. iii. Essay IV. seq. 



OF MALEVOLENT AFFECTION. \ §9 

duced, and each party thinks himself safe only in the destruction 
of his enemy. 

This right of redressing and punishing our own wrongs, so apt 
to be abused, is one of those natural rights, which, in political 
society, is given up to the laws, and to the civil magistrate ; and 
this indeed is one of the capital advantages we reap from the 
political union, that the evils arising from ungoverned resentment 
are in a great degree prevented. 

VIII. Although deliberate resentment does not properly belong 
to the class of animal principles ; yet, as both have the same 
name, and are distinguished only by philosophers, and as in real 
life they are commonly intermixed, I shall here make some 
remarks upon it. 

[A small degree of reason and reflection teaches a man that 
injury only, and not mere hurt, is a just object of resentment to 
a rational creature.] A man may suffer grievously by the hand 
of another^ not only without injury, but with the most friendly 
intention ; as in the case of a painful surgical operation. Every 
man of common sense sees, that to resent such suffering, is not 
the part of a man, but of a brute. 

Mr. Locke mentions a gentleman who, having been cured of 
madness by a very harsh and offensive operation, with great sense 
of gratitude, owned the cure as the greatest obligation he could 
have received, but could never bear the sight of the operator, 
because it brought back the idea of that agony which he had 
endured from his hands. 

In this case we see distinctly the operation both of the animal, 
and of the rational principle. The first produced an aversion to 
the operator, which reason was not able to overcome ; and prob- 
ably in a weak mind might have produced lasting resentment 
and hatred. But, in this gentleman, reason so far prevailed, as to 
make him sensible that gratitude, and not resentment, was due. 

Suffering may give a bias to the judgment, and make us appre- 
hend injury where no injury is done. But, I think, without an 
apprehension of injury, there can be no deliberate resentment. 

Hence, among enlightened nations, hostile armies fight with- 
out anger or resentment. The vanquished are not treated as 
offenders, but as brave men who have fought for their country 
unsuccessfully, and who are entitled to every office of humanity 
consistent with the safety of the conquerors. 

IX. Agreements and disagreements between deliberate and mere 
animal resentment. — [If we analyze that deliberate resentment 
which is proper to rational creatures, we shall find that though it 
agrees with that which is merely animal in some respects, it differs 
in others. Both are accompanied with an uneasy sensation, which 
disturbs the peace of the mind. Both prompt us to seek redress 
of our sufferings, and security from harm. But, in deliberate 



190 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. VI. 

resentment, there must be an opinion of injury done or intended. 
And an opinion of injury implies an idea of justice, and conse- 
quently a moral faculty, .] 

The very notion of an injury is, that it is less than we may 
justly claim ; as, on the contrary, the notion of a favour is that 
it is more than we can justly claim. Whence it is evident, that 
justice is the standard, by which both a favour and an injury 
are to be weighed and estimated. Their very nature and defini- 
tion consist in their exceeding or falling short of this standard. 
No man, therefore, can have the idea either of a favour or of an 
injury, who has not the idea of justice. 

That very idea of justice which enters into cool and deliberate 
resentment, tends to restrain its excesses. For as there is injus- 
tice in doing an injury, so there is injustice in punishing it 
beyond measure. 

f To a man of candour and reflection, consciousness of the 
frailty of human nature, and that he has often stood in need of 
forgiveness himself, the pleasure of renewing good understand- 
ing, after it has been interrupted, the inward approbation of a 
generous and forgiving disposition, and even the irksomeness and 
uneasiness of a mind ruffled by resentment, plead strongly against 
its excesses.,) 

Upon the whole, when we consider, That, on the one hand, 
every benevolent affection is pleasant in its nature, is health to 
the soul, and a cordial to the spirits ; that nature has made even 
the outward expression of benevolent affections in the counte- 
nance, pleasant to every beholder, and the chief ingredient of 
beauty in the human face divine ; that, on the other hand, every 
malevolent affection, not only in its faulty excesses, but in its 
moderate degrees, is vexation and disquiet to the mind, and even 
gives deformity to the countenance, it is evident that, by these 
signals, nature loudly admonishes us to use the former as our 
daily bread, both for health and pleasure, but to consider the 
latter as a nauseous medicine, which is never to be taken with- 
out necessity ; and even then in no greater quantity than the 
necessity requires. 



CHAPTER VI. 



OF PASSION. 



I. Passion, Disposition, Opinion. — Before I proceed to con- 
sider the rational principles of action, it is proper to observe, that 
[there are some things belonging to the mind, which have great 
influence upon human conduct, by exciting or allaying, inflaming 
or cooling the animal principles we have mentioned. 



OF PASSION. 1 9J 

Three of this kind deserve particular consideration. I shall 
call them by the names of passion, disposition, and opinion.~\ 

The meaning of the word passion is not precisely ascertained, 
either in common discourse, or in the writings of philosophers. 

II. Definition of passion. — I think it is commonly put to sig- 
nify [some agitation of mind, which is opposed to that state of 
tranquillity and composure, in which a man is most master of 
himself.] 

The word iraOos, which answers to it in the Greek language, 
is, by Cicero, rendered by the word perturbatio. 

W5F It has always been conceived to bear analogy to a storm 
at sea, or to a tempest in the air. It does not therefore signify 
any thing in the mind that is constant and permanent, but some- 
thing that is occasional, and has a limited duration, like a storm 
or tempest. 

Passion commonly produces sensible effects even upon the body. 
It changes the voice, the features, and the gesture. The exter- 
nal signs of passion have, in some cases, a great resemblance to 
those of madness ; in others, to those of melancholy. It gives 
often a degree of muscular force and agility to the body, far 
beyond what it possesses in calm moments. 

The effects of passion upon the mind are not less remarkable. 
It turns the thoughts involuntarily to the objects related to it, 
so that a man can hardly think of any thing else. It gives often 
a strange bias to the judgment, making a man quicksighted in 
every thing that tends to inflame his passion, and to justify it, 
but blind to every thing that tends to moderate and allay it. 
HaF Like a magic lantern, it raises up spectres and apparitions 
that have no reality, and throws false colours upon every object. 
It can turn deformity into beauty, vice into virtue, and virtue 
into vice. 

The sentiments of a man under its influence will appear 
absurd and ridiculous, not only to other men, but even to him- 
self when the storm is spent and is succeeded by a calm. Pas- 
sion often gives a violent impulse to the will, and makes a man 
do what he knows he shall repent as long as he lives. 

That such are the effects of passion, I think all men agree. 
They have been described in lively colours by poets, orators 
and moralists, in all ages. But men have given more attention 
to the effects of passion than to its nature ; and while they 
have copiously and elegantly described the former, they have 
not precisely defined the latter. 

III. [The controversy between the ancient Peripatetics and 
the Stoics, with regard to the passions, was probably owing to 
their affixing different meanings to the word.~\ The one sect 
maintained, that the passions are good, and useful parts of our 
constitution, while they are held under the government of 



192 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VI. 

reason. The other sect, conceiving that nothing is to be 
called passion which does not, in some degree, cloud and 
darken the understanding, considered all passion as hostile to 
reason, and therefore maintained, that in the wise man passion 
should have no existence, but be utterly exterminated. 

If both sects had agreed about the definition of passion, they 
would probably have had no difference. But while one con- 
sidered passion only as the cause of those bad effects which it 
often produces, and the other considered it as fitted by nature 
to produce good effects, while it is under subjection to reason, it 
does not appear that what one sect justified was the same thing 
which the other condemned. Both allowed that no dictate of 
passion ought to be followed in opposition to reason. Their 
difference, therefore, was verbal more than real, and was owing 
to their giving different meanings to the same word. 

IV. [The precise meaning' of this word seems not to be more 
clearly ascertained among modem philosophers.'] 

Mr. Hume gives the name of passion to every principle of 
action in the human mind ; and, in consequence of this, main- 
tains, that every man is, and ought to be led by his passions, 
and that the use of reason is to be subservient to the passions. 

Dr. Hutcheson, considering all the principles of action as so 
many determinations or motions of the will, divides them into 
the calm and the turbulent. The turbulent, he says, are our 
appetites and our passions. Of the passions, as well as of the 
calm determinations, he says, that " some are benevolent, others 
are selfish ; that anger, envy, indignation, and some others, may 
be either selfish or benevolent, according as they arise from some 
opposition to our own interests, or to those of our friends, or 
persons beloved or esteemed." 

It appears, therefore, that this excellent author gives the name 
of passions, not to every principle of action, but to some, and to 
those only when they are turbulent and vehement, not when 
they are calm and deliberate. 

Our natural desires and affections may be so calm as to leave 
room for reflection, so that we find no difficulty in deliberating 
coolly, whether, in such a particular instance, they ought to be 
gratified or not. On other occasions, they may be so importu- 
nate as to make deliberation very difficult, urging us, by a kind 
of violence, to their immediate gratification. 

Thus, a man may be sensible of an injury without being 
inflamed. He judges coolly of the injury, and of the proper 
means of redress.( This is resentment without passion. It leaves 
to the man the entire command of himself. \ 

On another occasion, the same principle of resentment rises 
into a flame. His blood boils within him ; his looks, his voice, 
and his gesture are changed ; he can think of nothing but imme- 



OF PASSION. 193 

diate revenge, and feels a strong impulse, without regard to 
consequences, to say and do things which his cool reason cannot 
justify. This is the passion of resentment. 

What has been said of resentment may easily be applied to 
other natural desires and affections. When they are so calm as 
neither to produce any sensible effects upon the body, nor to 
darken the understanding and weaken the power of self-com- 
mand, they are not called passions. But the same principle, 
when it becomes so violent as to produce these effects upon the 
body and upon the mind, is a passion, or, as Cicero very properly 
calls it, a perturbation, 

V. Humes paradoxes generally reducible to abuses of words. — 
It is evident that this meaning of the word passion accords much 
better with its common use in language, than that which Mr. 
Hume gives it. 

[When he says, (1) that men ought to be governed by their 
passions only, and (2) that the use of reason is to be subservient 
to the passions, this, at first hearing, appears a shocking para- 
dox, repugnant to good morals and to common sense ; but, like 
most other paradoxes, when explained according to his meaning, 
it is nothng but an abuse of words. ,] 

For if we give the name of passion to every principle of action, 
in every degree, and give the name of reason solely to the power 
of discerning the fitness of means to ends, it will be true, that 
the use of reason is to be subservient to the passions. 

[As I wish to use words as agreeably as possible to their com- 
mon use in language, I shall, by the word passion, mean, not any 
principle of action distinct from those desires and affections 
before explained, but such a degree of vehemence in them, or in 
any of them, as is apt to produce those effects upon the body or 
upon the mind which have been above described.*] 

Our appetites, even when vehement, are not, I think, very 
commonly called passions, yet they are capable of being inflamed 
to rage, and in that case their effects are very similar to those 
of the passions ; and what is said of one may be applied to 
both. 

VI. Common division of the passions. — Having explained what 
I mean by passions, I think it unnecessary to enter into any enu- 
meration of them, since they differ, not in kind, but rather in 
degree, from the principles already enumerated. 

The common division of the passions into desire and aversion, 
hope and fear, joy and grief, has been mentioned almost by every 
author who has treated of them, and needs no explication. But 
we may observe, that these are ingredients or modifications, not 
of the passions only, but of every principle of action, animal and 
rational. 

* Vide Definition of Passion, sec. ii. of this chap. 
O 



194 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. VI. 

All of them imply the desire of some object ; and the desire 
of an object cannot be without aversion to its contrary ; and, 
according as the object is present or absent, desire and aversion 
will be variously modified into joy or grief, hope or fear. It is 
evident, that desire and aversion, joy and grief, hope and fear, 
may be either calm and sedate, or vehement and passionate. 

VII. Influence of passion. — Passing these, therefore, as com- 
mon to all principles of action, whether calm or vehement, I 
shall only make some observations on passion in general, which 
tend to show its influence on human conduct. 

[First, It is passion that makes us liable to strong temptations. 
Indeed, if we had no passions, we should hardly be under any 
temptation to wrong conduct. For, when we view things calmly, 
and free from any of the false colours which passion throws upon 
them, we can hardly fail to see the right and the wrong, and to 
see that the first is more eligible than the last.] 

I believe a cool and deliberate preference of ill to good is never 
the first step into vice. 

" When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and 
that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make 
one wise, she took of the fruit thereof and did eat, and gave also 
to her husband with her and he did eat ; and the eyes of them 
both were opened." Inflamed desire had blinded the eyes of 
their understanding. 

Fix'd on the fruit she gazed, which to behold 
Might tempt alone ; and in her ears the sound 
Yet rung of his persuasive words impregn'd 
With reason to her seeming, and with truth. 

Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste, 

Of virtue to make wise, what hinders then 

To reach and feed at once both body and mind? — Milton. 

Thus our first parents were tempted to disobey their Maker, 
and all their posterity are liable to temptation from the same 
cause. ( Passion, or violent appetite, first blinds the understand- 
ing, and then perverts the will. N 

[It is passion, therefore, and the vehement motions of appetite, 
that make us liable, in our present state, to strong temptations 
to deviate from our duty. This is the lot of human nature in 
the present period of our existence.] 

( Human virtue must gather strength by struggle and effort.^ 
Iggp As infants, before they can walk without stumbling, must 
be exposed to many a fall and bruise ; as wrestlers acquire their 
strength and agility by many a combat and violent exertion; so 
it is in the noblest powers of human nature, as well as the mean- 
est, and even in virtue itself. 

It is not only made manifest by temptation and trial, but by 
these means it acquires its strength and vigour. 



OF passion. 295 

Men must acquire patience by suffering, and fortitude by 
being exposed to danger, and every other virtue by situations 
that put it to trial and exercise. 

This, for any thing we know, may be necessary in the nature 
of things. It is certainly a law of nature with regard to man. 

Whether there may be orders of intelligent and moral crea- 
tures who never were subject to any temptation, nor had their 
virtue put to any trial, we cannot without presumption deter- 
mine. But it is evident, that this neither is, nor ever was the 
lot of man, not even in the state of innocence. 

Sad, indeed, would be the condition of man, if the temptations 
to which, by the constitution of his nature, and by his circum- 
stances, he is liable, were irresistible. Such a state would not at 
all be a state of trial and discipline. 

Our condition here is such, that, on the one hand, passion 
often tempts and solicits us to do wrong; on the other hand, 
reason and conscience oppose the dictates of passion. The flesh 
lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh. And 
upon the issue of this conflict, the character of the man and his 
fate depend. 

If reason be victorious, his virtue is strengthened ; he has the 
inward satisfaction of having fought a good fight in behalf of his 
duty, and the peace of his mind is preserved. 

If, on the other hand, passion prevails against the sense of 
duty, the man is conscious of having done what he ought not, 
and might not have done. His own heart condemns him, and he 
is guilty to himself. 

This conflict between the passions of our animal nature and 
the calm dictates of reason and conscience, is not a theory in- 
vented to solve the phenomena of human conduct ; it is a fact, of 
which every man who attends to his own conduct is conscious. 

giT In the most ancient philosophy, of which we have any 
account, I mean that of the Pythagorean school, the mind of man 
was compared to a state or commonwealth, in which there are 
various powers, some that ought to govern, and others that ought 
to be subordinate. 

The good of the whole, which is the supreme law in this, 
as in every commonwealth, requires that this subordination be 
preserved, and that the governing powers have always the ascend- 
ant over the appetites and the passions. All wise and good con- 
duct consists in this. All folly and vice in the prevalence of 
passion over the dictates of reason. 

[This philosophy was adopted by Plato ; and it is so agreeable 
to what every man feels in himself, that it must always prevail 
with men who think without bias to a system.] 

The governing powers, of which these ancient philosophers 
speak, are the same which I call the rational principles of action 

o 2 



196 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VI. 

and which I shall have occasion to explain. I only mention 
them here, because, without a regard to them, the influence of 
the passions, and their rank in our constitution, cannot be dis- 
tinctly understood. 

VIII. [A secoiid observation is, that the impulse of passion is 
not always to what is bad, but very often to what is good, and 
what our reason approves. There are some passions, as Dr. 
Hutcheson observes, that are benevolent, as well as others that 
are selfish.] 

The affections of resentment and emulation, with those that 
spring from them, from their very nature, disturb and disquiet 
the mind, though they be not carried beyond the bounds which 
reason prescribes ; and therefore they are commonly called pas- 
sions, even in their moderate degrees. From a similar cause, the 
benevolent affections, which are placid in their nature, and are 
rarely carried beyond the bounds of reason, are very seldom called 
passions. We do not give the name of passion to benevolence, 
gratitude or friendship. Yet [we must except from this general 
rule, love between the sexes, which, as it commonly discomposes 
the mind, and is not easily kept within reasonable bounds, is 
always called a passion.] 

All our natural desires and affections are good and necessary 
parts of our constitution ; and passion, being only a certain 
degree of vehemence in these, its natural tendency is to good, 
and it is by accident that it leads us wrong. 

Passion is very properly said to be blind. It looks not beyond 
the present gratification. It belongs to reason to attend to the 
accidental circumstances which may sometimes make that- grati- 
fication improper or hurtful. When there is no impropriety in 
it, much more when it is our duty, passion aids reason, and gives 
additional force to its dictates. 

Sympathy with the distressed may bring them a charitable 
relief, when a calm sense of duty would be too weak to produce 
the effect. 

Objects, either good or ill, conceived to be very distant, when 
they are considered coolly, have not that influence upon men 
which in reason they ought to have. gg^ Imagination, like the 
eye, diminisheth its objects in proportion to their distance. The 
passions of hope and fear must be raised, in order to give such 
objects their due magnitude in the imagination, and their due 
influence upon our conduct. 

The dread of disgrace and of the civil magistrate, and the 
apprehension of future punishment, prevent many crimes, which 
bad men, without these restraints, would commit, and contribute 
greatly to the peace and good order of society. 

[There is no bad action which some passion may not prevent ; 
nor is there any external good action, of which some passion may 



OF PASSION. 197 

not be the main spring ; and, it is very probable, that even 
the passions of men, upon the whole, do more good to society 
than hurt.'] 

The ill that is done draws our attention more, and is imputed 
solely to human passions. The good may have better motives, 
and charity leads us to think that it has ; but, as we see not the 
heart, it is impossible to determine what share men's passions 
may have in its production. 

IX. [The last observation is, that if we distinguish, in the 
effects of our passions, those which are altogether involuntary, 
and without the sphere of our power, from the effects which may 
be prevented by an exertion, perhaps a great exertion, of self- 
government ; we shall find the first to be good and highly useful, 
and the last only to be bad.] 

Not to speak of the effects of moderate passions upon the 
health of the body, to which some agitation of this kind seems 
to be no less useful than storms and tempests to the salubrity of 
the air ; every passion naturally draws our attention to its object, 
and interests us in it. 

The mind of man is naturally desultory, and when it has no 
interesting object in view, roves from one to another, without 
fixing its attention upon any one. A transient and careless 
glance is all that we bestow upon objects in which we take no 
concern. It requires a strong degree of curiosity, or some more 
important passion, to give us that interest in an object which is 
necessary to our giving attention to it. And, without attention, 
we can form no true and stable judgment of any object. 

Take away the passions, and it is not easy to say how great a 
part of mankind would resemble those frivolous mortals, who 
never had a thought that engaged them in good earnest. 

It is not mere judgment or intellectual ability that enables a 
man to excel in any art or science. He must have a love and 
admiration of it bordering upon enthusiasm, or a passionate 
desire of the fame, or of some other advantage to be got by that 
excellence. Without this, he would not undergo the labour and 
fatigue of his faculties which it requires. So that, I think, we 
may with justice allow no small merit to the passions, even in 
the discoveries and improvements of the arts and sciences. 

If the passions for fame and distinction were extinguished, it 
would be difficult to find men ready to undertake the cares and 
toils of government ; and few perhaps would make the exertions 
necessary to raise themselves above the ignoble vulgar. 

The involuntary signs of the passions and dispositions of the 
mind, in the voice, features, and action, are a part of the human 
constitution which deserves admiration. The signification of 
those signs is known to all men by nature, and previous to all 
experience. 



198 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. VII. 

|jgr They are so many openings into the souls of our fellow 
men, by which their sentiments become visible to the eye. They 
are a natural language common to mankind, without which it 
would have been impossible to have invented any artificial 
language. 

X. [It is from the natural signs of the passions and disposi- 
tions of the mind, that the human form derives its beauty ; that 
painting, poetry, and music, derive their expression ; that elo~ 
quence derives its greatest force, and conversation its greatest 
charm.] 

( The passions, when kept within their proper bounds, give life 
and vigour to the whole man. ) Without them man would be a 
slug. We see what polish and animation the passion of love, 
when honourable and not unsuccessful, gives to both sexes. 

The passion for military glory raises the brave commander in 
the day of battle, far above himself, making his countenance to 
shine, and his eyes to sparkle. The glory of Old England warms 
the heart even of the British tar, and makes him despise every 
danger. 

As to the bad effects of passion, it must be acknowledged that 
it often gives a strong impulse to what is bad, and what a man 
condemns himself for, as soon as it is done. But he must be 
conscious that the impulse, though strong, was not irresistible, 
otherwise he could not condemn himself. 

We allow that a sudden and violent passion, into winch a man 
is surprised, alleviates a bad action ; but if it was irresistible, it 
would not only alleviate, but totally exculpate, which it never 
does, either in the judgment of the man himself, or of others. 

To sum up all, passion furnishes a very strong instance of the 
truth of the common maxim, that the corruption of the best 
things is worst. 



CHAPTER VII. 



OF DISPOSITION. 



T. [By disposition I mean a state of mind ivhich, while it lasts, 
gives a tendency, or proneness, to be moved by certain animal 
principles, rather than by others ; while, at another time, another 
state of mind, in the same person, may give the ascendant to 
other animal principles.] 

It was before observed, that it is a property of our appetites 
to be periodical, ceasing for a time, when sated by their objects, 
and returning regularly after certain periods. 

Even those principles which are not periodical, have their ebbs 
and flows occasionally, according to the present disposition of 
the mind. 



OF DISPOSITION. 1 99 

Among some of the principles of action there is a natural affi- 
nity, so that one of the tribe naturally disposes to those which 
are allied to it. 

Such an affinity has been observed by many good authors to 
be among all the benevolent affections. The exercise of one 
benevolent affection gives a proneness to the exercise of others. 

There is a certain placid and agreeable tone of mind which is 
common to them all, which seems to be the bond of that con- 
nexion and affinity they have with one another. 

The malevolent affections have also an affinity, and mutually 
dispose to each other, by means, perhaps, of that disagreeable 
feeling common to them all, which makes the mind sore and 
uneasy. 

II. [As far as we can trace the causes of the different dispositions 
of the mind, they seem to be in some cases owing (1) to those asso- 
ciating powers of the principles of action, which have a natural 
affinity, and are prone to keep company with one another ; 
sometimes (2) to accidents of good or bad fortune, and sometimes, 
no doubt, (3) the state of the body may have influence upon the 
disposition of the mind.] 

At one time the state of the mind, like a serene unclouded 
sky, shows every thing in the most agreeable light. Then a 
man is prone to benevolence, compassion, and every kind affec- 
tion ; unsuspicious, not easily provoked. 

The poets have observed that men have their mollia tempora 
fandi, when they are averse from saying or doing a harsh thing ; 
and artful men watch these occasions, and know how to improve 
them to promote their ends. 

III. The excellent consequences of good humour.— This dispo- 
sition, I think, we commonly call good humour, of which, in the 
fair sex, Mr. Pope says, 

[ Good humour only teaches charms to last, 
Still makes new conquests, and maintains the past. 

[(1) There is no disposition more comfortable to the person 
himself, or more agreeable to others, than good humour. (2) It 
is to the mind, what good health is to the body, putting a man 
in the capacity of enjoying every thing that is agreeable in life, 
and of using every faculty without clog or impediment. (3) 
It disposes to contentment with our lot, (4) to benevolence to all 
men, (5) to sympathy with the distressed. (6) It presents every 
object in the most favourable light, and (7) disposes us to avoid 
giving or taking offence.] 

[This happy disposition seems to be the natural fruit of a good 
conscience, and a firm belief that the world is under a wise and 
benevolent administration ; jand, when it springs from this root, 
it is an habitual sentiment of piety^J 



200 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VII. 

Good humour is likewise apt to be produced by happy success, 
or unexpected good fortune. Joy and hope are favourable to it ; 
vexation and disappointment are unfavourable.] 

The only danger of this disposition seems to be, that if we 
are not upon our guard, it may degenerate into levity, and 
indispose us to a proper degree of caution, and of attention to 
the future consequences of our actions. 

IV. [There is a disposition opposite to good humour which we 
call bad humour, of which the tendency is directly contrary, and 
therefore its influence is as malignant as that of the other is 
salutary.] 

Bad humour alone is sufficient to make a man unhappy ; it 
tinges every object with its own dismal colour ; and, like a part 
that is galled, is hurt by every thing that touches it. It takes 
offence where none was meant, and disposes to discontent, jea- 
lousy, envy, and, in general, to malevolence. 

V. Elation, magnanimity, a sense of honour and pride. — An- 
other couple of opposite dispositions are elation of mind, on the 
one hand, and depression on the other. 

These contrary dispositions are both of an ambiguous nature ; 
their influence may be good or bad, according as they are 
grounded on true or false opinion, and according as they are 
regulated. 

That elation of mind which arises from a just sense of the dig- 
nity of our nature, and of the powers and faculties with which 
God hath endowed us, is true magnanimity, and disposes a man 
to the noblest virtues, and the most heroic actions and enterprises. 

There is also an elation of mind which arises from a conscious- 
ness of our worth and integrity, such as Job felt, when he said, 
" Till I die, I will not remove my integrity from me. My 
righteousness I hold fast, and will not let it go ; my heart shall 
not reproach me while I live." This may be called the pride of 
virtue ; but it is a noble pride. It makes a man disdain to do 
what is base or mean. This is the true sense of honour. 

But there is an elation of mind arising from a vain opinion 
of our having talents, or worth, which we have not ; or from 
putting an undue value upon any of our endowments of mind, 
body, or fortune. This is pride, the parent of many odious vices ; 
such as arrogance, undue contempt of others, self-partiality, and 
vicious self-love. 

VI. Depression, humility, meanness. — The opposite disposi- 
tion to elation of mind, is depression, which also has good or bad 
effects, according as it is grounded upon true or false opinion. 

[A just sense of the weakness and imperfections of human 
nature, and of our own personal faults and defects, is true 
humility. It is not to think of ourselves above tvhat we ought 
to think :] a most salutary and amiable disposition ;; of great 



OF DISPOSITION. 20\ 

price in the sight of God and man./ Nor is it inconsistent with 
real magnanimity and greatness of soul. They may dwell toge- 
ther with great advantage and ornament to both, and be faithful 
monitors against the extremes to which each has the greatest 
tendency.] 

But there is a depression of mind which is the opposite to 
magnanimity, which debilitates the springs of action, and freezes 
every sentiment that should lead to any noble exertion or en- 
terprise. 

Suppose a man to have no belief of a good administration of 
the world, no conception of the dignity of virtue, no hope of 
happiness in another state. Suppose him, at the same time, in 
a state of extreme poverty and dependence, and that he has no 
higher aim than to supply his bodily wants, or to minister to the 
pleasure, or flatter the pride, of some being as worthless as him- 
self. Is not the soul of such a man depressed as much as his 
body or his fortune ? And, if fortune should smile upon him 
while he retains the same sentiments, he is only the slave of for- 
tune. His mind is depressed to the state of a brute, and his 
human faculties serve only to make him feel that depression. 

Depression of mind may be owing to melancholy, a distemper 
of mind which proceeds from the state of the body, which throws 
a dismal gloom upon every object of thought, cuts all the sinews 
of action, and often gives rise to strange and absurd opinions in 
religion, or in other interesting matters. Yet, where there is 
real worth at bottom, some rays of it will break forth even in 
this depressed state of mind. 

®3F A remarkable instance of this was exhibited in Mr. Simon 
Brown, a dissenting clergyman in England, who, by melancholy, 
was led into the belief that his rational soul had gradually de- 
cayed within him, and at last was totally extinct. From this 
belief he gave up his ministerial function, and would not even 
join with others in any act of worship, conceiving it to be a pro- 
fanation to worship God without a soul. 

In this dismal state of mind, he wrote an excellent defence of 
the Christian religion, against Tindal's " Christianity as old as 
the Creation." To the book he prefixed an epistle dedicatory 
to Queen Caroline, wherein he mentions, " That he was once 
a man, but, by the immediate hand of God, for his sins, his 
very thinking substance has, for more than seven years, been 
continually wasting away, till it is wholly perished out of him, 
if it be not utterly come to nothing." And, having heard of 
her Majesty's eminent piety, he begs the aid of her prayers. 

The book was published after his death without the dedica- 
tion, which, however, having been preserved in manuscript, was 
afterwards printed in the " Adventurer," No. 88. 

Thus this good man, when he believed that he had no soul, 



202 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 

showed a most generous and disinterested concern for those who 
had souls. 

As depression of mind may produce strange opinions, espe- 
cially in the case of melancholy, so our opinions may have a very 
considerable influence, either to elevate or to depress the mind, 
even where there is no melancholy. 

Suppose, on the one hand, a man who believes that he is destined 
to an eternal existence ; that he who made, and who governs the 
world, maketh account of him, and hath furnished him with the 
means of attaining a high degree of perfection and glory. With 
this man compare, on the other hand, the man who believes no- 
thing at all, or who believes that his existence is only the play 
of atoms, and that, after he hath been tossed about by blind 
fortune for a few years, he shall again return to nothing. Can 
it be doubted, that the former opinion leads to elevation and great- 
ness of mind, the latter to meanness and depression ? 



CHAPTER VIII. 

OF OPINION. 



I. Influence of opinion upon our animal principles. — When 
we come to explain the rational principles of action, it will 
appear that opinion is an essential ingredient in them. Here we 
are only to consider its influence upon the animal principles. 
Some of those I have ranked in that class cannot, I think, exist 
in the human mind without it. 

Gratitude supposes the opinion of a favour done or intended ; 
resentment the opinion of an injury; esteem the opinion of 
merit ; the passion of love supposes the opinion of uncommon 
merit and perfection in its object. 

Although natural affection to parents, children, and near re- 
lations, is not grounded on the opinion of their merit, it is much 
increased by that consideration. So is every benevolent affection. 
On the contrary, real malevolence can hardly exist without the 
opinion of demerit in the object. 

There is no natural desire or aversion, which may not be 
restrained by opinion. v Thus, if a man were athirst, and had a 
strong desire to drink, the opinion that there was poison in the 
cup would make him forbear. 

It is evident that hope and fear, which every natural desire or 
affection may create, depend upon the opinion of future good 
or ill. 

[Thus it appears that our passions, our dispositions, and our 
opinions, have great influence upon our animal principles, to 
strengthen or weaken, to excite or restrain them ; and, by that 
means, have great influence upon human actions and characters.] 



OF OPINION. 20S 

II. [That brute animals have both passions and dispositions 
similar, in many respects, to those of men, cannot be doubted. 
Whether they have opinions, is not so clear. I think they have 
not, in the proper sense of the word.] But, waving all dispute 
upon this point, it will be granted that opinion in men has a 
much wider field than in brutes. No man will say, that they 
have systems of theology, morals, jurisprudence or politics ; or 
that they can reason from the laws of nature, in mechanics, 
medicine, or agriculture. 

They feel the evils or enjoyments that are present ; probably 
they imagine those which experience has associated with what 
they feel. But they can take no large prospect either of the 
past or of the future, nor see through a train of consequences. 

j^° A dog may be deterred from eating what is before him, 
by the fear of immediate punishment, which he has felt on like 
occasions ; but he is never deterred by the consideration of 
health, or of any distant good. 

|gp I have been credibly informed that a monkey having once 
been intoxicated with strong drink, in consequence of which it 
burnt its foot in the fire, and had a severe fit of sickness, could 
never after be induced to drink any thing but pure water. I be- 
lieve this is the utmost pitch which the faculties of brutes can reach. 

III. [From the influence of opinion upon the conduct of man- 
kind, we may learn that it is one of the chief instruments to be 
used in the discipline and government of men.~\ 

All men, in the early part of life, must be under the discipline 
and government of parents and tutors. . Men who live in society 
must be under the government of laws and magistrates, through 
life. The government of men is undoubtedly one of the noblest 
exertions of human power. And it is of great importance that 
those who have any share, either in domestic or civil government, 
should know the nature of man, and how he is to be trained 
and governed. J 

Of all instruments of government, opinion is the sweetest, and 
the most agreeable to the nature of man. Obedience that flows 
from opinion, is real freedom, which every man desires. That 
which is extorted by fear of punishment, is slavery; a yoke 
which is always galling, and which every man will shake off 
when it is in his power. 

The opinions of the bulk of mankind have always been, and 
will always be, what they are taught by those whom they esteem 
to be wise and good ; and therefore, in a considerable degree, 
are in the power of those who govern them. 

( Man, uncorrupted by bad habits and bad opinions, is of all 
animals the most tractable ; corrupted by these, he is of all ani- 
mals the most untractable. ) 

IV. Analogy between the discipline of body and mind.^-I appre- 



204 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 

hend, therefore, that, if ever civil government shall be brought 
to perfection, it must be the principal care of the state to make 
good citizens by proper education, and proper instruction and 
discipline. 

0§F The most useful part of medicine is that which strength- 
ens the constitution, and prevents diseases by good regimen ; 
the rest is somewhat like propping a ruinous fabric at great ex- 
pense, and to little purpose. The art of government is the me- 
dicine of the mind, and the most useful part of it is that which 
prevents crimes and bad habits, and trains men to virtue and good 
habits, by proper education and discipline. 
■ The end of government is to make the society happy, which 
can only be done by making it good and virtuous. / 

That men in general will be good or bad members of society, 
according to the education and discipline by which they have 
been trained, experience may convince us. 

The present age has made great advances in the art of training 
men to military duty. It will not be said that those who enter 
into that service are more tractable than their fellow-subjects of 
other professions. And I know not why it should be thought 
impossible to train men to equal perfection in the other duties 
of good citizens. 

What an immense difference is there, for the purpose of war, 
between an army properly trained, and a militia hastily drawn 
out of the multitude ? What should hinder us from thinking 
that, for every purpose of civil government, there may be a like 
difference between a civil society properly trained to virtue, good 
habits and right sentiments, and those civil societies which we 
now behold ? — But I fear I shall be thought to digress from my 
subject into Utopian speculation. 

Y. Man actuated by no sense of duty, considered. — [To make 
an end of what I have to say upon the animal principles of 
action, we may take a complex view of their effect in Hfe, by 
supposing a being actuated by principles of no higher order, to 
have no conscience or sense of duty, only let us allow him that 
superiority of understanding, and that power of self-government 
which man actually has. Let us speculate a little upon this 
imaginary being, and consider what conduct and tenor of action 
might be expected from him.] 

It is evident he would be a very different animal from a brute, 
and perhaps not very different, in appearance, from what a great 
part of mankind is. 

He would be capable of considering the distant consequences 
of his actions, and of restraining or indulging his appetites, 
desires, and affections, from the consideration of distant good 
or evil. 

He would be capable of choosing some main end of his life, 



OF OPINION. 205 

and planning such a rule of conduct as appeared most subservient 
to it. Of this, we have reason to think no brute is capable. 

We can, perhaps, conceive such a balance of the animal prin- 
ciples of action, as, with very little self-government, might make 
a man to be a good member of society, a good companion, and 
to have many amiable qualities. 

The balance of our animal principles, I think, constitutes 
what we call a man's natural temper ; which may be good or bad 
with regard to his virtue. 

A man in whom the benevolent aifections, the desire of esteem 
and good humour, are naturally prevalent, who is of a calm and 
dispassionate nature, who has the good fortune to live with good 
men, and associate with good companions, may behave properly 
with little effort. 

His natural temper leads him, in most cases, to do what 
virtue requires. And if he happens not to be exposed to those 
trying situations, in which virtue crosses the natural bent of his 
temper, he has no great temptation to act amiss. 

But perhaps a happy natural temper, joined with such a happy 
situation, is more ideal than real, though no doubt some men 
make nearer approaches to it than others. 

The temper and the situation of men is commonly such, that 
the animal principles alone, without self-government, would 
never produce any regular and consistent train of conduct. 

One principle crosses another. Without self-government, that 
which is strongest at the time will prevail. And that which is 
weakest at one time may, from passion, from a change of dis- 
position or of fortune, become strongest at another time. 

Every natural appetite, desire, and affection, has its own pre- 
sent gratification only in view. [A man, therefore, who has no 
other leader than these, would be like a ship in the ocean with- 
out hands, which cannot be said to be destined to any port. He 
would have no character at all, but be benevolent or spiteful, 
pleasant or morose, honest or dishonest, as the present wind 
of passion or tide of humour moved him.] 

VI. [Every man who pursues an end, be it good or bad, must 
be active when he is disposed to be indolent ; he must rein 
every passion and appetite that would lead him out of his road.] 

Mortification and self-denial are found not in the paths of 
virtue only ; they are common to every road that leads to an end, 
be it ambition, or avarice, or even pleasure itself. Every man 
who maintains an uniform and consistent character, must sweat 
and toil, and often struggle with his present inclination. 

Yet those who steadily pursue some end in life, though they 
must often restrain their strongest desires, and practise much 
self-denial, have, upon the whole, more enjoyment than those 
who have no end at all, but to gratify the present prevailing 
inclination. 



^06 ESSAY III.— PART TIL CHAP. I. 

fiST A dog that is made for the chase, cannot enjoy the hap- 
piness of a dog without that exercise. Keep him within doors, 
feed him with the most delicious fare, give him all the plea- 
sures his nature is capable of, he soon becomes a dull, torpid, 
unhappy animal. No enjoyment can supply the want of that 
employment which nature has made his chief good. Let him 
hunt, and neither pain nor hunger, nor fatigue seem to be evils. 
Deprived of this exercise, he can relish nothing. Life itself 
becomes burdensome. 

It is no disparagement to the human kind to say, that man, 
as well as the dog, is made for hunting, and cannot be happy 
but in some vigorous pursuit. He has indeed nobler game to 
pursue than the dog, but he must have some pursuit, other- 
wise life stagnates, all the faculties are benumbed, the spirits 
flag, and his existence becomes an unsurmoun table burden.? 

Even the mere foxhunter, who has no higher pursuit"' than 
his dogs, has more enjoyment than he who has no pursuit at 
all. He has an end in view, and this invigorates his spirits, 
makes him despise pleasure, and bear cold, hunger, and fatigue, 
as if they were no evils. 

" Manet sub Jove frigido 
Venator, tenerse conjugis immemor ; 
Seu visa est catulis cerva fidelibus 
Seu rupit teretes Marsus aper plagas." 

" The hunter, chill'd by midnigbt Jove 
Forgets his tender, wedded love, 
Whether his faithful hounds pursue, 
And hold the bounding hind in view : 
Or Marsian boar, fierce-foaming, foils 
The chace, and breaks the spreading toils." 



PART III. 

OF THE RATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION. 

CHAPTER I. 

THERE ARE RATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION IN MAN. 

I. Mechanical principles* of action produce their effect 
without any will or intention on our part. We may, by a 
voluntary effort, hinder the effect; but if it be not hindered by 
will and effort, it is produced without them. 

Animal principles of action require intention and will in their 
operation, but not judgment. They are, by ancient moralists, 
very properly called caecce cupidities, blind desires. 

Having treated of these two classes, [I proceed to the third, 
* Vide Essay III. chap, ill., sect. 1, p. 151. 



RATIONAL PRINCIPLES OF ACTION IN MAN. gQT 

the rational principles of action in man ; which have that name, 
because they can have no existence in beings not endowed with 
reason, and, in all their exertions, require, not only intention 
and will, but judgment or reason.] 

That talent which we call reason, by which men that are adult 
and of a sound mind, are distinguished from brutes, idiots, and 
infants, has, in all ages, among the learned and unlearned, been 
conceived to have two offices, to regulate our belief, and to regu- 
late our actions and conduct. 

Whatever we believe, we think agreeable to reason, and, on 
that account, yield our assent to it. Whatever we disbelieve, 
we think contrary to reason, and, on that account, dissent from 
it. Reason, therefore, is allowed to be the principle by which 
our belief and opinions ought to be regulated. 

But reason has been no less universally conceived to be a 
principle, by which our actions ought to be regulated. 

To act reasonably, is a phrase no less common in all languages, 
than to judge reasonably. We immediately approve of a man's 
conduct, when it appears that he had good reason for what he 
did. And every action we disapprove, we think unreasonable, 
or contrary to reason. 

A way of speaking so universal among men, common to the 
learned and the unlearned in all nations, and in all languages, 
must have a meaning. To suppose it to be words without mean- 
ing, is to treat, with undue contempt, the common sense of 
mankind. 

Supposing this phrase to have a meaning, we may consider in 
what way reason may serve to regulate human conduct, so that 
some actions of men are to be denominated reasonable, and 
others unreasonable. 

I take it for granted, that there can be no exercise of reason 
without judgment, nor, on the other hand, any judgment of 
things abstract and general, without some degree of reason. 

If, therefore, there be any principles of action in the human 
constitution, which, in their nature, necessarily imply such judg- 
ment, they are the principles which we may call rational, to dis- 
tinguish them from animal principles, which imply desire and 
will, but not judgment; and from mechanical, which imply 
neither will nor intention. 

II. Humes error as to one of the chief offices of reason. — Every 
deliberate human action must be done either as the means, or as 
an end ; as the means to some end, to which it is subservient, 
or as an end, for its own sake, and without regard to any thing 
beyond it. 

That it is a part of the office of reason to determine, what 
are the proper means to any end which we desire, no man ever 
denied. But some philosophers, particularly Mr. Hume, think 



^08 ESSAY III.— PART IIT. CHAP. II. 

that it is no part of the office of reason to determine the ends we 
ought to pursue, or the preference due to one end above another. 
This, he thinks, is not the office of reason, but of taste or feeling. 

If this be so, reason cannot, with any propriety, be called a 
principle of action. Its office can only be to minister to the 
principles of action, by discovering the means of their gratifi- 
cation. Accordingly, Mr. Hume maintains, that reason is no 
principle of action; but that it is, and ought to be, the servant 
of the passions. 

I shall endeavour to show, that, among the various ends of 
human actions, there are some, of which, without reason, we 
could not even form a conception ; and that, as soon as they are 
conceived, a regard to them is, by our constitution, not only a 
principle of action, but a leading and governing principle, to 
which all our animal principles are subordinate, and to which 
they ought to be subject. 

These I shall call rational principles ; because they can exist 
only in persons endowed with reason, and because, to act from 
these principles, is what has always been meant by acting accord- 
ing to reason. 

The ends of human actions I have in view, are two, to wit, 
what is good for us upon the whole, and what appears to be our 
duty. They are very strictly connected, lead to the same course 
of conduct, and co-operate with each other; and, on that ac- 
count, have commonly been comprehended under one name, that 
of reason. But as they may be disjoined, and are really distinct 
principles of action, I shall consider them separately. 



CHAPTER II. 

OF REGARD TO OUR GOOD ON THE WHOLE. 

I. Chief spring of our early actions. — It will not be denied 
that man, when he comes to years of understanding, is led by 
his rational nature, to form the conception of what is good for 
him upon the whole. 

How early in life this general notion of good enters into the 
mind, I cannot pretend to determine. It is one of the most 
general and abstract notions we form. 

Whatever makes a man more happy, or more perfect, is good, 
and is an object of desire as soon as we are capable of forming 
the conception of it. The contrary is ill, and is an object of 
aversion. 

In the first part of life we have many enjoyments of various 
kinds ; but very similar to those of brute-animals. ^ 

They consist in the exercise of our senses ana powers of 



OF REGARD TO OUR GOOD ON THE WHOLE. gQ9 

motion, the gratification of our appetites, and the exertions of 
our kind affections. These are chequered with many evils of 
pain, and fear, and disappointment, and sympathy with the suf- 
fering of others. 

But the goods and evils of this period of life are of short 
duration, and soon forgot. The mind being regardless of the 
past, and unconcerned about the future, we have then no other 
measure of good but the present desire ; no other measure of 
evil but the present aversion. 

Every animal desire has some particular and present object, 
and looks not beyond that object to its consequences, or to the 
connexions it may have with other things. 

The present object, which is most attractive, or excites the 
strongest desire, determines the choice, whatever be its conse- 
quences. The present evil that presses most is avoided, though 
it should be the road to a greater good to come, or the only way 
to escape a greater evil. [This is the way in which brutes act, 
and the way in which men must act, till they come to the use of 
reason.] 

II. The conception of what is good or ill for us upon the whole, 
the offspring of reason. — As we grow up to understanding, we 
extend our view both forward and backward. We reflect upon 
what is past, and, by the lamp of experience, discern what will 
probably happen in time to come. We find that many things 
which we eagerly desired, were too dearly purchased, and that 
things grievous for the present, like nauseous medicines, may 
be salutary in the issue. 

I We learn to observe the connexions of things, and the conse- 
quences of our actions ; and, taking an extended view of our 
existence, past, present, and future, we correct our first notions 
of good and ill, and form the conception of what is good or ill 
upon the whole ; which must be estimated, not from the present 
feeling, or from the present animal desire or aversion, but from 
a due consideration of its consequences, certain or probable, 
during the whole/ of our existence, i 

That which, taken with all its discoverable connexions and 
consequences, brings more good than ill, I call good upon the 
whofa. 

That brute animals have any conception of this good, I see no 
reason to believe. And it is evident, that man cannot have the 
conception of it, till reason be so far advanced, that he can 
seriously reflect upon the past, and take a prospect of the future 
part of his existence. 

[It appears therefore, that the very conception of what is good 
or ill for us upon the whole, is the offspring of reason, and can 
be only in beings endowed with reason. And if this conception 
give rise to any principle of action in man, which he had not 

p 



210 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. II- 

before, that principle may very properly be called a rational 
principle of action.] 

I pretend not in this to say any thing that is new, but what 
reason suggested to those who first turned their attention to the 
philosophy of morals. I beg leave to quote one passage from 
Cicero, in his first book of " Offices ;" wherein, with his usual ele- 
gance, he expresses the substance of what I have said. And 
there is good reason to think that Cicero borrowed it from Panae- 
tius, a Greek philosopher, whose books of Offices are lost. 

" Sed inter hominem et belluam hoc maxime interest, quod 
hsec tantum quantum sensu movetur, ad id solum quod adest, 
quodque prsesens est se accommodat, paululum admodum sen- 
tiens prseteritum aut futurum : homo autem quoniam rationis 
est particeps, per quam consequentia cernit, causas rerum videt, 
earumque praegressus et quasi antecessiones non ignorat : simili- 
tudines comparat, et rebus prsesentibus adjungit atque annectit 
futuras ; facile totius vitae cursum videt, ad eamque degendam 
preparat res necessarias." — Lib. I. sect. iv. 

" But between man and the lower animals, there is in other 
respects the greatest difference. The latter, guided by the im- 
pulse of their senses alone, are confined to what is present, or 
near, with a very slight knowledge of the past or the future. 
Man, however, who partakes of reason, distinguishes the causes 
and the consequences of events, observes the progress, compares 
similar circumstances, connects the past with the future, easily 
surveys the whole course of life, and makes the necessary provi- 
sion for its well-being." — Book I. sect. iv. 

III. [I observe, in the next place, that as soon as we have the 
conception of what is good or ill for us upon the whole, we are 
led, by our constitution, to seek the good and avoid the ill ; and 
this becomes not only a principle of action, but a leading or 
governing principle, to which all our animal principles ought to 
be subordinate.] 

I am very apt to think, with Dr. Price, that, in intelligent 
beings, the desire of what is good, and aversion to what is ill, is 
necessarily connected with the intelligent nature ; and that it is 
a contradiction to suppose such a being to have the notion of 
good without the desire of it, or the notion of ill without aver- 
sion to it. Perhaps there may be other necessary connexions 
between understanding and the best principles of action, which 
our faculties are too weak to discern. That they are necessarily 
connected in him who is perfect in understanding, we have good 
reason to believe. 

To prefer a greater good, though distant, to a less that is pre- 
sent ; to choose a present evil, in order to avoid a greater evil, or 
to obtain a greater good, is, in the judgment of all men, wise and 
reasonable conduct ; and, when a man acts the contrary part, all 



OF REGARD TO OUR GOOD ON THE WHOLE. %\\ 

men will acknowledge, that he acts foolishly and unreasonably. 
Nor will it be denied, that, in innumerable cases in common life, 
our animal principles draw us one way, while a regard to what is 
good on the whole, draws us the contrary way. Thus the flesh 
lusteth against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh, and 
these two are contrary. ( That in every conflict of this kind the 
rational principle ought to prevail, and the animal to be subor- 
dinate, is too evident to need, or to admit of proof. } 

Thus, I think, it appears, that [to pursue what is good upon 
the whole, and to avoid what is ill upon the whole, is a rational 
principle of action) grounded upon our constitution as reasonable 
creatures.] 

It appears that it is not without just cause, that this principle 
of action has in all ages been called reason, in opposition to our 
animal principles, which in common language are called by the 
general name of the passions. 

The first not only operates in a calm and cool manner, like 
reason, but implies real judgment in all its operations. The 
second, to wit, the passions, are blind desires, of some particular 
object, without any judgment or consideration, whether it be 
good for us upon the whole, or ill. 

It appears also, that the fundamental maxim of prudence and 
of all good morals,( That the passions ought, in all cases, to be 
under the dominion of reason, is not only self-evident, when 
rightly understood, but is expressed according to the common 
use and propriety of language. ; 

The contrary maxim maintained by Mr. Hume, can only be 
defended by a gross and palpable abuse of words. For, in order 
to defend it, he must include under the passions, that very prin- 
ciple which has always, in all languages, been called reason, and 
never was, in any language, called a passion. And from the 
meaning of the word reason he must exclude the most important 
part of it, by which we are able to discern and to pursue what 
appears to be good upon the whole. And thus, including the 
most important part of reason under passion, and making the 
least important part of reason to be the whole, he defends his 
favourite paradox, that reason is, and ought to be, the servant of 
the passions. 

IV. Office of practical reason. — [To judge of what is true or 
false in speculative points, is the office of speculative reason ; 
and to judge of what is good or ill for us upon the whole, is the 
office of practical reason.] Of true and false there are no de- 
grees ; but of good and ill there are many degrees, and many 
kinds ; and men are very apt to form erroneous opinions concern- 
ing them ; misled by their passions, by the authority of the mul- 
titude, and by other causes. 

Wise men, in all ages, have reckoned it a chief point of wisdom, 

p2 



2\2 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. II. 

to make a right estimate of the goods and evils of life. They 
have laboured to discover the errors of the multitude on this 
important point, and to warn others against them. 

The ancient moralists, though divided into sects, all agreed 
in this, that opinion has a mighty influence upon what we 
commonly account the goods and ills of life, to alleviate or to 
aggravate them. 

The Stoics carried this so far, as to conclude that they all 
depend on opinion. Yldvra 'TitoX-ti^ls was a favourite maxim 
with them. 

We see, indeed, that the same station or condition of life 
which makes one man happy, makes another miserable, and to 
a third is perfectly indifferent. We see men miserable through 
life, from vain fears, and anxious desires, grounded solely upon 
wrong opinions. We see men wear themselves out with toilsome 
days, and sleepless nights, in pursuit of some object which they 
never attain ; or which, when attained, gives little satisfaction, 
perhaps real disgust. 

The evils of life, which every man must feel, have a very dif- 
ferent effect upon different men. What sinks one into despair 
and absolute misery, rouses the virtue and magnanimity of 
another, who bears it as the lot of humanity, and as the disci- 
pline of a wise and merciful Father in heaven. I He rises supe- 
rior to adversity, and is made wiser and better by it, and conse- 
quently happier, f 

It is therefore of the last importance, in the conduct of life, 
to have just opinions with respect to good and evil ; and surely 
it is the province of reason to correct wrong opinions, and to lead 
us into those that are just and true. 

It is true indeed, that men's passions and appetites too often 
draw them to act contrary to their cool judgment and opinion of 
what is best for them. " Video meliora proboque, deteriora 
sequor," — (I perceive and approve of better things, I follow 
worse,) is the case in every wilful deviation from our true in- 
terest and our duty. 

When this is the case, the man is self-condemned, he sees that 
he acted the part of a brute, when he ought to have acted the 
part of a man. He is convinced that reason ought to have 
restrained his passion, and not to have given the rein to it. 

When he feels the bad effects of his conduct, he imputes them 
to himself, and would be stung with remorse for his folly, though 
he had no account to make to a superior Being. He has sinned 
against himself, and brought upon his own head the punishment 
which his folly deserved. 

From this we may see, that this rational principle of a regard 
to our good upon the whole, gives us the conception of a right 
and a wrong in human conduct, at least of a wise and a foolish. 



THE TENDENCY OF THIS PRINCIPLE. ^\S 

It produces a kind of self-approbation, when the passions and 
appetites are kept in their due subjection to it ; and a kind of 
remorse and compunction, when it yields to them. 

In these respects, this principle is so similar to the moral prin- 
ciple, or conscience, and so interwoven with it, that both are 
commonly comprehended under the name of reason. [This simi- 
larity led many of the ancient philosophers, and some among the 
moderns, to resolve conscience, or a sense of duty, entirely into a 
regard to what is good for us upon the whole.] 

That they are distinct principles of action, though both lead to 
the same conduct in life, I shall have occasion to show, when I 
come to treat of conscience. 



CHAPTER III. 



THE TENDENCY OF THIS PRINCIPLE. 



I. Question of the ancient moralists, " What is the greatest 
good V — It has been the opinion of the wisest men, in all ages, 
that this principle, of a regard to our good upon the whole, in a 
man duly enlightened, leads to the practice of every virtue. 

This was acknowledged, even by Epicurus ; and the best 
moralists among the ancients derived all the virtues from this 
principle. For, among them, the whole of morals was reduced 
to this question, what is the greatest good ? Or what course of 
conduct is best for us upon the whole ? 

In order to resolve this question, they divided goods into three 
classes, the goods of the body ; the goods of fortune, or external 
goods j and the goods of the mind ; meaning, by the last, wisdom 
and virtue. 

Comparing these different classes of goods, they showed, with 
convincing evidence, that the goods of the mind are, in many 
respects, superior to those of the body and of fortune, not only 
I as they have more dignity, are more durable, and less exposed 
to the strokes of fortune, but chiefly as they are the only goods 
in our power, and which depend wholly on our conduct. 

II. Fallacy of the Epicurean doctrine. — Epicurus himself 
maintained, that the wise man may be happy in the tranquillity 
of his mind, even when racked with pain, and struggling with 
adversity. 

They observed very justly, that the goods of fortune, and even 
those of the body, depend much on opinion ; and that, when our 
opinion of them is duly corrected by reason, we shall find them 
of small value in themselves. 

[How can he be happy who places his happiness in things which 
it is not in his power to attain, or in things from which, when 



214 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. III. 

attained, a fit of sickness, or a stroke of fortune, may tear him 
asunder ?] 

The value we put upon things, and our uneasiness in the want 
of them, depend upon the strength of our desires ; correct the 
desire, and the uneasiness ceases. 

The fear of the evils of body and of fortune, is often a 
greater evil than the things We fear. As the wise man mode- 
rates his desires by temperance, so to real or imaginary dangers 
he opposes the shield of fortitude and magnanimity, which raises 
him above himself, and makes him happy and triumphant in those 
moments wherein others are most miserable. 

III. Doctrine of the Stoics not original. — These oracles of 
reason led the Stoics so far as to maintain, that all desires and 
fears, with regard to things not in our power, ought to be totally 
eradicated; that virtue is the only good ; that what we call the 
goods of the body and of fortune, are really things indifferent, 
which may, according to circumstances, prove good or ill, and 
therefore have no intrinsic goodness in themselves ; that our sole 
business ought to be, to act our part well, and to do what is 
I right, without the least concern about things not in our power, 
which we ought, with perfect acquiescence, to leave to the care 
of Him who governs the world. 

[This noble and elevated conception of human wisdom and 
duty was taught by Socrates, free from the extravagances which 
the Stoics afterwards joined with it.] We see it in the Alci- 
biades of Plato ; from which Juvenal hath taken it in his tenth 
satire, and adorned it with the graces of poetry. 

Omnibus in terris quse sunt a gadibus usque 
Auroram et Ganger), pauci dignoscere possunt 
Vera bona, atque illis multum diversa, remota 
Ervoris nebula. Quid enim ratione timemus? 
Aut cupimus? Quid tarn dextra pede concupis ut te 
Conatus non pceniteat, votique peracti? 
Nil ergo optabunt homines'? Si consilium vis, 
Permittes ipsis expendere numinibus, quid 
Conveniat nobis, rebusque sit utile nostris. 
Nam pro jucundis aptissima quae que dabunt Dii. 
Charior est illis homo quam sibi. Nos animorum 
Impulsu, et caeca magnaque cupidine ducti, 
Conjugium petimus, partumque uxoris; at illis 
Notum quipueri, qualisque futura sit uxor. 
Fortem posce animum, et mortis terrore carentem, 
Qui spatium vitae extremum inter munera ponat 
Naturae ; qui ferre queat quoscunque labores, 
Nesciat irasci, cupiat nihil, et potiores 
Herculis aerumnas credat, saevosque labores 
Et venere, et coenis, et plumis, Sardanapali. 

Monstro quid ipse tibi possis dare. Semita certc 
Tranquillae per virtutem patet unica vitaa. 
Nullum numen abest si sit prudentia; sed te 
Nos facimus fortuna Deam, cceloque locamus. 



THE TENDENCY OF THIS PRINCIPLE. 215 

" In all lands that extend from Gades to the east and the Ganges, few can 
distinguish true good things, and those greatly different from them, the cloud 
of error being removed : for what, with reason, do we fear or desire ? What do 
you contrive so prosperously, that you may not repent of your endeavours and 
of your accomplished wish? Shall men, therefore, wish for nothing? If you 
wish for advice, permit the gods themselves to consider what may suit us and 
be useful to our affairs. For instead of what are pleasant, the gods will give 
things that are fittest. Man is dearer to them than to himself. Led by the 
impulse of our minds, and by a blind and great desire, we ask marriage and fruit- - 
fulness in a wife ; but the gods alone know what sort those children and that 
wife may prove to be. Ask for a mind firm and free from the fear of death, 
which counts the last stage of life amongst the gifts of nature, — which can 
endure any troubles whatsoever, — is unconscious of anger, — covets nothing, — 
and which thinks the sufferings of Hercules and his cruel labours preferable 
to the lasciviousness, luxury, and plumes of Sardanapalus. I point out what 
you yourself may give to yourself, — undoubtedly the only path to a tranquil 
life lies open through virtue. You would have no divinity, O Fortune, if we 
had prudence; but we make you a goddess, and place you in heaven." 

Even Horace, in his serious moments, falls into this system. 

Nil admirari, prope res est una Numici, 
Solaque .quag possit facere et servare beatum. 
" Not to admire, is of all means the best, 
The only means, to make, and keep us blest." 

"We cannot but admire the Stoical system of morals, even 
when we think that, in some points, it went beyond the pitch of 
human nature. The virtue, the temperance, the fortitude, and 
magnanimity of some who sincerely embraced it, amidst all the 
flattery of sovereign power and the luxury of a court, will be 
everlasting monuments to the honour of that system, and to the 
honour of human nature. 

That a due regard to what is best for us upon the whole, in an 
enlightened mind, leads to the practice of every virtue, may be 
argued from considering what we think best for those for whom 
we have the strongest affection, and whose good we tender as 
our own. In judging for ourselves, our passions and appetites 
are apt to bias our judgment ; but when we judge for others, 
this bias is removed, and we judge impartially. 

What is it then that a wise man would wish as the greatest 
good to a brother, a son, or a friend ? 

Is it that he may spend his life in a constant round of the 
pleasures of sense, and fare sumptuously every day ? 
r No, surely : we wish him to be a man of real virtue and worth. 
We may wish for him an honourable station in life ; but only 
with this condition, that he acquit himself honourably in it, and 
acquire just reputation, by being useful to his country and to 
mankind. We would a thousand times rather wish him honour- 
ably to undergo the labours of Hercules, than to dissolve in 
pleasure with Sardanapalus. \ 

Such would be the wish of every man of understanding for 



216 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. III. 

I the friend whom he loves as his own soul. Such things, there- 
fore, he judges to be best for him upon the whole; and if he 
judges otherwise for himself, it is only because his judgment is 
perverted by animal passions and desires. 

IV. Recapitulation of what has been advanced relative to the 
rational principles of action. — The sum of what has been said 
in these three chapters amounts to this : 

[ (1) There is a principle of action in men that are adult and 
of a sound mind, which, in all ages, has been called reason, and 
set in opposition to the animal principles which we call the pas- 
sions.'] [(2) The ultimate object of this principle is what we 
judge to be good upon the whole.] This is not the object of 
any of our animal principles, they being all directed to parti- 
cular objects, without any comparison with others, or any consi- 
deration of their being good or ill upon the whole. 

[ (3) What is good upon the whole cannot even be conceived 
without the exercise of reason , and therefore cannot be an object 
to beings that have not some degree of reason.] 

[ (4) As soon as we have the conception of this object, we are 
led, by our constitution, to desire and pursue it.] It justly claims 
a preference to all objects of pursuit that can come in compe- 
tition with it. In preferring it to any gratification that opposes 
it, or in submitting to any pain or mortification which it requires, 
we act according to reason ; and every such action is accompanied 
with self-approbation and the approbation of mankind. The 
contrary actions are accompanied with shame and self-condemna- 
tion in the agent, and with contempt in the spectator, as foolish 
and unreasonable. 

[ (5) The right application of this principle to our conduct 
requires an extensive prospect of human life, and a correct judg- 
ment and estimate of its goods and evils, with respect to their 
intrinsic worth and dignity, their constancy and duration, and 
their attainableness.] He must be a wise man, indeed, if any 
such man there be, who can perceive, in every instance, or even 
in every important instance, what is best for him upon the whole, 
if he have no other rule to direct his conduct. 
/ However, [ (6) according to the best judgment which wise 
men have been able to form, this principle leads to the practice 
of every virtue.'] It leads directly to the virtues of prudence, 
temperance, and fortitude. And, when we consider ourselves 
as social creatures, whose happiness or misery is very much con- 
nected with that of our fellow-men ; when we consider, that 
there are many benevolent affections planted in our constitution, 
whose exertions make a capital part of our good and enjoyment ; 
from these considerations, this principle leads us also, though 
more indirectly, to the practice of justice, humanity, and all the 
social virtues. ? 



DEFECTS OF THIS PRINCIPLE. 



217 



It is true, that a regard to our own good cannot, of itself, pro- 
duce any benevolent affection. But, if such affections be a part 
of our constitution, and if the exercise of them make a capital 
part of our happiness, a regard to our own good ought to lead 
us to cultivate and exercise them, as every benevolent affection 
makes the good of others to be our own. 



CHAPTER IV. 

DEFECTS OF THIS PRINCIPLE. 



I. The rational principle of action not the only regulator of 
human conduct. — Having explained the nature of this principle 
of action, and shown in general the tenor of conduct to which it 
leads, I shall conclude what relates to it, by pointing out some 
of its defects, if it be supposed, as it has been by some philo- 
sophers, to be the only regulating principle of human conduct. 

[Upon that supposition, it would (1) neither be a sufficiently 
plain rule of conduct, (2) nor would it raise the human character 
to that degree of perfection of which it is capable, (3) nor would 
it yield so much real happiness as when it is joined with another 
rational principle of action, to wit, a disinterested regard to 
duty.] 

First, I apprehend the greater part of mankind can never 
attain such extensive views of human life, and so correct a judg- 
ment of good and ill, as^ the right application of this principle 
requires. 

The authority of the poet before quoted is of weight in this 
point. "Pauci dignoscere possunt vera bona, remota erroris 
nebula."* The ignorance of the bulk of mankind concurs with 
the strength of their passions to lead them into error in this 
most important point. 

Every man, in his calm moments, wishes to know what is best 
for him on the whole, and to do it. But the difficulty of disco- 
vering it clearly, amid such variety of opinions, and the impor- 
tunity of present desires, tempt men to give over the search, 
and to yield to the present inclination. 

Though philosophers and moralists have taken much laudable 
pains to correct the errors of mankind in this great point, their 
instructions are known to few ; they have little influence upon 
the greater part of those to whom they are known, and sometimes 
little even upon the philosopher himself. 

[Speculative discoveries gradually spread from the knowing 
to the ignorant, and diffuse themselves over all, so that, with 

* Page 214. 



gig ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 

regard to them, the world, it may be hoped, will still be growing 
wiser. But the errors of men, with regard to what is truly good 
or ill, after being discovered and refuted in every age, are still 
prevalent.] 

Men stand in need of a sharper monitor to their duty than 
a dubious view of distant good. There is reason to believe, that 
a present sense of duty has, in many cases, a stronger influence 
than the apprehension of distant good would have of itself. And 
it cannot be doubted, that a sense of guilt and demerit is a more 
pungent reprover than the bare apprehension of having mistaken 
our true interest. 

JI5F The brave soldier, in exposing himself to danger and 
death, is animated, not by a cold computation of the good and 
the ill, but by a noble and elevated sense of military duty. 

A philosopher shows, by a copious and just induction, what is 
our real good and what our ill. But this kind of reasoning is 
not easily apprehended by the bulk of men. It has too little 
force upon their minds to resist the sophistry of the passions. 
They are apt to think, that if such rules be good in the general, 
they may admit of particular exceptions, and that what is good 
for the greater part, may, to some persons, on account of parti- 
cular circumstances, be ill. 

Thus, I apprehend, that, [if we had no plainer rule to direct 
our conduct in life than a regard to our greatest good, the great- 
est part of mankind would be fatally misled, even by ignorance 
of the road to it.] 

II. [Secondly, Though a steady pursuit of our own real good 
may, in an enlightened mind, produce a kind of virtue which is 
entitled to some degree of approbation, yet it can never produce 
the noblest kind of virtue, which claims our highest love and 
esteem.] 

"VYe account him a wise man who is wise for himself; and if 
he prosecutes this end through difficulties and temptations that 
lie in his way, his character is far superior to that of the man 
who, having the same end in view, is continually starting out of 
the road to it, from an attachment to his appetites and passions, 
and doing every day what he knows he shall heartily repent. 

Yet, after all, this wise man, whose thoughts and cares are 
all centred ultimately in himself, who indulges even his social 
affections only with a view to his own good, is not the man 
whom we cordially love and esteem. 

ggf° Like a cunning merchant, he carries his goods to the best 
market, and watches every opportunity of putting them off to 
the best account. He does well and wisely. But it is for him- 
self. We owe him nothing upon this account. Even when lie 
does good to others, he means only to serve himself ; and there- 
fore has no just claim to their gratitude or affection. 



DEFECTS OF THIS PRINCIPLE. gjC) 

This surely, if it be virtue, is not the noblest kind, but 
a low and mercenary species of it. It can neither give a noble 
elevation to the mind that possesses it, nor attract the esteem 
and love of others. 

Our cordial love and esteem is due only to the man whose 
soul is not contracted within itself, but embraces a more exten- 
sive object : who loves virtue, not for her dowry only, but for 
her own sake : whose benevolence is not selfish, but generous 
and disinterested : who, forgetful of himself, has the common 
good at heart, not as the means only, but as the end : who ab- 
hors what is base, though he were to be a gainer by it, and 
loves that which is right, although he should suffer by it. 

Such a man we esteem the perfect man, compared with whom 
he who has no other aim but good to himself, is a mean and 
despicable character. 

Disinterested goodness and rectitude is the glory of the 
Divine Nature, without which he might be an object of fear 
or hope, but not of true devotion. And it is the image of this 
divine attribute, in the human character, that is the glory of 
man. 

To serve God, and be useful to mankind, without any con- 
cern about our own good and happiness, is, I believe, beyond 
the pitch of human nature. But to serve God, and be useful 
to men, merely to obtain good to ourselves, or to avoid ill, is 
servility, and not that liberal service which true devotion and 
real virtue require. 

III. Thirdly, Though one might be apt to think that he 
has the best chance for happiness, who has no other end of his 
deliberate actions but his own good ; yet a little consideration 
may satisfy us of the contrary. 

[A concern for our own good is not a principle that, of itself, 
gives any enjoyment. On the contrary, it is apt to fill the mind 
with fear, and care, and anxiety. And these concomitants of 
this principle, often give pain and uneasiness, that overbalance 
the good they have in view.] 

\j$W We may here compare, in point of present happiness, 
two imaginary characters ; the first, of the man who has no 
other ultimate end of his deliberate actions but his own good ; 
and who has no regard to virtue or duty, but as the means to 
that end. The second character is that of the man who is not 
indifferent with regard to his own good, but has another ulti- 
mate end perfectly consistent with it, to wit, a disinterested 
love of virtue, for its own sake, or a regard to duty as an end.] 

Comparing these two characters in point of happiness, that 
we may give all possible advantage to the selfish principle, we 
shall suppose the man who is actuated solely by it, to be so far 
enlightened as to see it his interest to live soberly, righteously, 



220 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. IV. 

and godly in the world, and that he follows the same course of 
conduct from the motive of his own good only, which the other 
does, in a great measure, from a sense of duty and rectitude. 

We put the case so as that the difference between these two 
persons may be, not in what they do, but in the motive from 
which they do it -^ and, I think, there can be no doubt that he 
who acts from the noblest and most generous motive, will have 
most happiness in his conduct, j 

The one labours only for hire, without any love to the work. 
The other loves the work, and thinks it the noblest and most 
honourable he can be employed in. To the first, the mortifica- 
tion and self-denial which the course of virtue requires, is a 
grievous task, which he submits to only through necessity. To 
the other it is victory and triumph in the most honourable 
warfare. 

It ought further to be considered, That although wise men 
have concluded that virtue is the only road to happiness, this 
conclusion is founded chiefly upon the natural respect men have 
for virtue, and the good or happiness that is intrinsic to it and 
arises from the love of it. If we suppose a man, as we now 
do, altogether destitute of this principle, who considered virtue 
only as the means to another end, there is no reason to think 
that he would ever take it to be the road to happiness, but 
would wander for ever, seeking this object where it is not to be 
found. 

[IV. Do the roads of duty and happiness coincide ? — The road 
of duty is so plain, that the man who seeks it, with an upright 
heart, cannot greatly err from it. But the road to happiness, if 
that be supposed the only end our nature leads us to pursue, 
would be found dark and intricate, full of snares and dangers, 
and therefore not to be trodden without fear, and care, and per- 
plexity.] 

The happy man, therefore, is not he whose happiness is his 
only care, but he who, with perfect resignation, Reaves the care 
\of his happiness to Him who made him, while he pursues with 
ardour the road of his "duty. 

This gives an elevation to his mind, which is real happiness. 
Instead of care, and fear, and anxiety, and disappointment, it 
brings joy and triumph. It gives a relish to every good we en- 
joy, and brings good out of evil. 

And as no man can be indifferent about his happiness, the 
good man has the consolation to know that he consults his hap- 
piness most effectually, when, without any painful anxiety about 
future events, he does his duty. 

Thus, I think, it appears, That although a regard to our 
good, upon the whole, be a rational principle in man, yet, if 
it be supposed the only regulating principle of our conduct, 



OF THE NOTION OF DUTY, ETC. ^2\ 

it would be a more uncertain rule, it would give far less per- 
( fection to the human character, and far less happiness, than 
} when joined with another rational principle, to wit, a regard to 
\duty. 



CHAPTER V. 

OF THE NOTION OF DUTY, RECTITUDE, MORAL OBLIGATION. 

I. A sense of interest or a sense of duty, or both, necessary to the 
social state. — A being endowed with the animal principles of 
action only, may be capable of being trained to certain purposes 
by discipline, as we see many brute animals are, but would be 
altogether incapable of being governed by law. 

The subject of law must have the conception of a general rule 
of conduct, which, without some degree of reason, he cannot 
have. He must likewise have a sufficient inducement to obey 
the law, even when his strongest animal desires draw him the 
contrary way. 

This inducement may be a sense of interest, or a sense of duty, 
or both concurring. 

These are the only principles I am able to conceive, which 
can reasonably induce a man to regulate all his actions according 
to a certain general rule or law. They may therefore be justly 
called the rational principles of action, since they can have no 
place but in a being endowed with reason, and since it is by 
them only, that man is capable either of political or of moral 
government. 

g£P Without them, human life would be like a ship at sea with- 
out hands, left to be carried by winds and tides as they happen. 
It belongs to the rational part of our nature to intend a certain 
port, as the end of the voyage of life ; to take the advantage of 
winds and tides when they are favourable, and to. bear up against 
them when they are unfavourable. 

A sense of interest may induce us to do this, when a suitable 
reward is set before us. But there is a nobler principle in the 
constitution of man, which, in many cases, gives a clearer and 
more certain rule of conduct, than a regard merely to interest 
would give, and a principle, without which man would not be a 
moral agent. 

A man is prudent when he consults his real interest, but he 
cannot be virtuous, if he has no regard to duty. 

II. Of a sense of duty only. — I proceed now to consider this 
regard to duty as a rational jwinciple of action in man, and as 
that principle alone by which he is capable of virtue or vice. 



222 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. V. 

I shall first offer some observations with regard to the general 
notion of duty, and its contrary, or of right and wrong in hu- 
man conduct, and then consider how we come to judge and de- 
termine certain things in human conduct to be right, and others 
to be wrong. 

With regard to the notion or conception of duty, I take it to 
be too simple to admit of a logical definition. 

We can define it only by synonymous words or phrases, or by 
its properties and necessary concomitants, as when we say that 
[it is what we ought to do, what is fair and honest, what is ap- 
provable, what every man professes to be the rule of his con- 
duct, what all men praise, and what is in itself laudable, though 
no man should praise it.] 

I observe, in the next place, That the notion of duty cannot 
be resolved into that of interest, or what is most for our hap- 
piness. 

Every man may be satisfied of this who attends to his own 
conceptions, and the language of all mankind shows it. When 
( I say, this is my interest, I mean one thing ; when I say, it is 
my duty, I mean another thing. ^ And though the same course of 
action, when rightly understood, may be both my duty and my 
interest, the conceptions are very different. Both are reasonable 
motives to action, but quite distinct in their nature. 

I presume it will be granted, that in every man of real worth, 
there is a principle of honour, a regard to what is honourable or 
dishonourable, very distinct from a regard to his interest. ( It is 
folly in a man to disregard his interest, but to do what is disho- 
nourable is baseness A The first may move our pity, or, in some 
cases, our contempt, but the last provokes our indignation. 

[As these two principles are different in their nature, and not 
resolvable into one, so the principle of honour is evidently supe- 
rior in dignity to that of inter est. ~\ 

No man would allow him to be a man of honour, who should 
plead his interest to justify what he acknowledged to be disho- 
nourable I but to sacrifice interest to honour never costs a blush. J) 

It likewise will be allowed by every man of honour, that this 
principle is not to be resolved into a regard to our reputation 
among men, otherwise the man of honour would not deserve to 
be trusted in the dark. He would have no aversion to lie, or 
cheat, or play the coward, when he had no dread of being dis- 
covered. 

I take it for granted, therefore, that every man of real honour 
feels an abhorrence of certain actions, because they are in them- 
selves base, and feels an obligation to certain other actions, 
because they are in themselves what honour requires, and this 
independently of any consideration of interest or reputation. 



OF THE NOTION OF DUTY, ETC. g^3 

[This is an immediate moral obligation. — This principle of 
honour, which is acknowledged by all men who pretend to cha- 
racter, is only another name for what w T e call a regard to duty, 
to rectitude, to propriety of conduct. It is a moral obligation 
which obliges a man to do certain things because they are right, 
and not to do other things because they are wrong.] 

Ask the man of honour, why he thinks himself obliged to pay 
a debt of honour ? The very question shocks him. To suppose 
that he needs any other inducement to do it but the principle of 
honour, is to suppose that he has no honour, no worth, and 
deserves no esteem. 

There is, therefore, a principle in man, which, when he acts 
according to it, gives him a consciousness of worth, and when 
he acts contrary to it, a sense of demerit. 

[III. The notion of this principle invariable, its extent not so. 
— From the varieties of education, of fashion, of prejudices, and 
of habits, men may differ much in opinion with regard to the 
extent of this principle, and of what it commands and forbids ; 
but the notion of it, as far as it is carried, is the same in all. It 
is that which gives a man real worth, and is the object of moral 
approbation.] 

Men of rank call it honour, and too often confine it to certain 
virtues that are thought most essential to their rank. The vul- 
gar call it honesty, probity, virtue, conscience. Philosophers 
have given it the names of the moral sense, the moral faculty, 
rectitude. 

The universality of this principle in men that are grown up to 
years of understanding and reflection, is evident. The words 
that express it, the names of the virtues which it commands, and 
of the vices which it forbids, the ought and ought not which ex- 
press its dictates, make an essential part of every language.^The 
natural affections of respect to worthy characters, of resentment 
of injuries, of gratitude for favours, of indignation against the 
worthless, are parts of the human constitution which suppose a 
right and a wrong in conduct. ) Many transactions that are found 
necessary in the rudest societies go upon the same supposition. 
In all testimony, in all promises, and in all contracts, there is 
necessarily implied a moral obligation on one party, and a trust 
in the other, grounded upon this obligation. 

IV. Reality of moral distinctions. — The variety of opinions 
among men in points of morality, is not greater, but, as I ap- 
prehend, much less than in speculative points ; and this variety 
is as easily accounted for from the common causes of error, in the 
one case as in the other ; so that it is not more evident, that 
there is a real distinction between true and false, in matters of 
speculation, than that there is a real distinction between right 
and wrong in human conduct. 



2^4 ESSAY III— PART II. CHAP. V. 

Mr. Hume's authority, if there were any need of it, is of 
weight in this matter, because he was not wont to go rashly into 
vulgar opinions. 

" Those," says he, " who have denied the reality of moral 
distinctions, may be ranked among the disingenuous disputants 
(who really do not believe the opinions they defend, but engage 
in the controversy, from affectation, from a spirit of opposition, 
or from a desire of showing wit and ingenuity superior to the 
rest of mankind) ; nor is it conceivable that any human creature 
could ever seriously believe that all characters and actions were 
alike entitled to the regard and affection of every one. 

" Let a man's insensibility be ever so great, he must often be 
touched with the images of right and wrong ; and let his preju- 
dices be ever so obstinate, he must observe that others are sus- 
ceptible of like impressions. The only way, therefore, of con- 
vincing an antagonist of this kind is to leave him to himself. For, 
finding that nobody keeps up the controversy with him, it is pro- 
bable he will at last, of himself, from mere weariness, come 
over to the side of common sense and reason." 

What we call right and honourable in human conduct, was, by 
the ancients, called honestum, to kciXov ; of which Tully says, 
" Quod vere dicimus, etiamsi a nullo laudetur, natura esse lau- 
dabile." De Officiis, lib. i. sect. S. 

All the ancient sects, except the Epicureans, distinguished the 
honestum from the utile, as we distinguish what is a man's duty 
from what is his interest. 

The word officium (KaOrJKov) extended both to the honestum and 
the utile: so that every reasonable action, proceeding either 
from a sense of duty or a sense of interest, was called officium. 
It is defined by Cicero to be, " Id quod cur factum sit ratio pro- 
babilis reddi potest." — Such a one as a fair and reasonable ac- 
count may be given for the doing of it. We commonly render 
it by the word duty, but it is more extensive ; for the word duly, 
in the English language, I think, is commonly applied only to 
what the ancients called honestum. Cicero, and Pannsetius be- 
fore him, treating of offices, first point out those that are 
grounded upon the honestum, and next those that are grounded 
upon the utile. 

V. The most ancient philosophical system concerning the prin- 
ciples of action in the human mind, and, I think, the most 
agreeable to Nature, is that which we find in some fragments of 
the ancient Pythagoreans, and which is adopted by Plato, and 
explained in some of his dialogues. 

According to this system, there is a leading principle in the 
soul, which, like the supreme power in a commonwealth, has 
authority and right to govern. This leading principle they called 
reason. It is that which distinguishes men that are adult from 



OF THE NOTION OF t>UTY, ETC. ^25 

brutes, idiots, and infants. The inferior principles, which are 
under the authority of the leading principle, are our passions 
and appetites, which we have in common with the bmtesy 

Cicero adopts this system, and expresses it well in few words. 
" Duplex enim est vis animorum atque naturae. Una pars in 
appetitu posita est, quae hominem hue et illuc rapit, quae est 
op/JLTj graece, altera in ratione, quae docet, et explanat quid 
faciendum fugiendumve sit. Ita sit ut ratio praesit appetitus 
obtemperet." — " For the impulse of our minds and nature is two- 
fold ; one part consists in appetite, which hurries man hither 
and thither, which is op^rj in Greek ; the other in reason, which 
teaches and explains what is to be done, what to be avoided. 
^Whence it is that reason should guide, appetite obey. "J 

** This division of our active principles Can hardly indeed be 
accounted a discovery of philosophy, because it has been common 
to the unlearned in all ages of the world, and seems to be dictated 
by the common sense of mankind. 

What I would now observe concerning this common division 
of our active powers, is, that the leading principle, which is 
called reason, comprehends both a regard to what is right and 
honourable, and a regard to our happiness upon the whole. 

Although these be really two distinct principles of action, it is 
very natural to comprehend them under one name, because both 
are leading principles, both suppose the use of reason, and, 
when rightly understood, both lead to the same course of life. 
1ST They are like two fountains whose streams unite and run in 
^the same channel. 

When a man, on one occasion, consults his real happiness in 
things not inconsistent with his duty, though in opposition to the 
solicitation of appetite or passion ; and when, on another occa- 
sion, without any selfish consideration, he does what is right and 
honourable, because it is so ; in both these cases, he acts reason- 
ably ; every man approves of his conduct, and calls it reasonable, 
or according to reason. 

So that, when we speak of reason as a principle of action in 
man, it includes a regard both to the honestum and to the utile. 
Both are combined under one name ; and accordingly the dic- 
tates of both, in the Latin tongue, were combined under the 
name officium, and in the Greek under KaOrJKov. 

VI. Moral obligation a relation. — [If we examine the abstract 
notion of duty, or moral obligation, it appears to be neither any 
real quality of the action considered by itself, nor of the agent 
considered without respect to the action, but a certain relation 
between the one and the other.] 

When we say a man ought to do such a thing, the ought, 
which expresses the moral obligation, has a respect, on the one 
hand, to the person who ought, and, on the other, to the action 

Q 



226 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. V. 

which he ought to do. Those two correlates are essential to 
every moral obligation ; take away either, and it has no exist- 
ence. So that, if we seek the place of moral obligation among 
the categories, it belongs to the category of relation. 

[There are many relations of things, of which we have the 
most distinct conception, without being able to define them logi- 
cally. Equality and proportion are relations between quantities, 
which every man understands, but no man can define."] 

Moral obligation is a relation of its own kind, which every 
man understands, but is perhaps too simple to admit of logical 
definition. Like all other relations, it may be changed or anni- 
hilated by a change in any of the two related things, I mean the 
agent or the action. 

VII. Perhaps it may not be improper to point out briefly 
the circumstances, both in the action and in the agent, which are 
necessary to constitute moral obligation. The universal agree- 
ment of men in these, shows that they have one and the same 
notion of it. 

With regard to the action, it must be a voluntary action, or 
prestation of the person obliged, and not of another. There 
can be no moral obligation upon a man to be six feet high. Nor 
can I be under a moral obligation that another person should do 
such a thing. His actions must be imputed to himself, and mine 
only to me, either for praise or blame. 

I need hardly mention, that a person can be under a moral 
obligation only to things within the sphere of his natural power. 

As to the party obliged, it is evident, there can be no moral 
obligation upon an inanimate thing. To speak of moral obliga- 
tion upon a stone or a tree is ridiculous, because it contradicts 
every man's notion of moral obligation. 

The person obliged must have understanding and will, and 
some degree of active power. He must not only have the natural 
faculty of understanding, but the means of knowing his obligation. 
^An invincible ignorance of this destroys all moral obligation. ) 

The opinion of the agent in doing the action gives it its moral 
denomination. If he does a materially good action, without any 
belief of its being good, but from some other principle, it is no 
good action in him. And if he does it with the belief of its 
being ill, it is ill in him. 

Thus, if a man should give to his neighbour a potion which he 
really believes will poison him, but which, in the event, proves 
salutary, and does much good ; in moral estimation, he is a poi- 
soner, and not a benefactor. 

These qualifications of the action and of the agent, in moral 
obligation, are self-evident; and the agreement of all men in 
them shows, that all men have the same notion and a distinct 
notion of moral obligation. 



227 



CHAPTER VI. 

OF THE SENSE OF DUTY. 

I. The moral sense, — the moral faculty, — conscience. — We 
are next to consider, how we learn to judge and determine, that 
this is right, and that is wrong. 

The abstract notion of moral good and ill would be of no use 
to direct our life, if we had not the power of applying it to par- 
ticular actions, and determining what is morally good, and what 
is morally ill. 

Some philosophers, with whom I agree, ascribe this to an ori- 
ginal power or faculty in man, which they call the moral sense, 
the moral faculty, conscience. Others think, that our moral 
sentiments may be accounted for without supposing any original 
sense or faculty appropriated to that purpose, and go into very 
different systems to account for them. 

I am not, at present, to take any notice of those systems, 
because the opinion first mentioned seems to me to be the truth, 
to wit, that, by an original power of the mind, when we come to 
years of understanding and reflection, we not only have the no- 
tions of right and wrong in conduct, but perceive certain things 
to be right, and others to be wrong. 

The name of the moral sense, though more frequently given to 
conscience since Lord Shaftesbury and Dr. Hutcheson wrote, is 
not new. The " sensus recti et honesti," is a phrase not unfre- 
quent among the ancients, neither is the sense of duty among us. 

II. This analogy excusable. — [It has got this name of sense, 
no doubt, from some analogy which it is conceived to bear to 
the external senses. And if we have just notions of the office of 
the external senses, the analogy is very evident, and I see no 
reason to take offence, as some have done, at the name of the 
moral sense,~\ 

The offence taken at this name seems to be owing to this, that 
philosophers have degraded the senses too much, and deprived 
them of the most important part of their office. 

We are taught, that, by the senses, we have only certain ideas 
which we could not have otherwise. They are represented as 
powers by which we have sensations and ideas, not as powers by 
which we judge. 

This notion of the senses I take to be very lame, and to 
contradict what nature and accurate reflection teach concerning 
them. 

A man who has totally lost the sense of seeing, may retain 
very distinct notions of the various colours ; but he cannot judge 
of colours, because he has lost the sense by which alone he could 

q2 



ggg ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VI. 

judge. By my eyes I not only have the ideas of a square and a 
circle, but I perceive this surface to be a square, that to be 
a circle. 

By my ear, I not only have the idea of sounds, loud and soft, 
acute and grave, but I immediately perceive and judge this sound 
to be loud, that to be soft, this to be acute, that to be grave. 
Two or more synchronous sounds I perceive to be concordant, 
others to be discordant. 

These are judgments of the senses. They have always been 
called and accounted such, by those whose minds are not tinc- 
tured by philosophical theories. They are the immediate testi- 
mony of nature by our senses; and we are so constituted by 
nature, that we must receive their testimony, for no other reason 
but because it is given by our senses. 

In vain do sceptics endeavour to overturn this evidence by 
metaphysical reasoning. Though we should not be able to answer 
their arguments, we believe our senses still, and rest our most 
important concerns upon their testimony. 

If this be a just notion of our external senses, as I conceive it 
is, our moral faculty may, I think, without impropriety, be called 
the moral sense. 

III. Further shown. — In its dignity it is, without doubt, far 
superior to every other power of the mind ; but [there is this 
analogy between it and the external senses, that, as by them we 
have not only the original conceptions of the various qualities of 
bodies, but the original judgments that this body has such a 
quality, that such another ; so by our moral faculty, we have 
both the original conceptions of right and wrong in conduct, of 
merit and demerit, and the original judgments that this con- 
duct is right, that is wrong ; that this character has worth, that, 
demerit.] 

The testimony of our moral faculty, like that of the external 
senses, is the testimony of nature, and we have the same reason 
to rely upon it. 

The truths immediately testified by the external senses are the 
first principles from which we reason, with regard to the mate- 
rial world, and from which all our knowledge of it is deduced. 

The truths immediately testified by our moral faculty, are the 
first principles of all moral reasoning, from which all our know- 
ledge of our duty must be deduced. 

IV. [By moral reasoning, I understand all reasoning that is 
brought to prove that such conduct is right, and deserving of 
moral approbation, or that it is ivrong, or that it is indifferent, 
and, in itself, neither morally good nor ill.] 

I think all we can properly call moral judgments are reducible 
to one or other of these, as all human actions, considered in a 
moral view, are either good, or bad, or indifferent. 



OF THE SENSE OF DUTY. gg9 

I know the term moral reasoning is often used by good writers 
in a more extensive sense ; but as the reasoning I now speak of 
is of a peculiar kind, distinct from all others, and therefore ought 
to have a distinct name, I take the liberty to limit the name of 
moral reasoning to this kind. 

Let it be understood, therefore, that [in the reasoning I call 
moral, the conclusion always is, that something in the conduct 
of moral agents is good or bad, in a greater or a less degree, or 
indifferent.] 

[All reasoning must be grounded on first principles. This 
holds in moral reasoning, as in all other kinds. There must, 
therefore, be in morals, as in all other sciences, first or self- 
evident principles, on which all moral reasoning is grounded, 
and on which it ultimately rests.] From such self-evident prin- 
ciples, conclusions may be drawn synthetically with regard to 
the moral conduct of life ; and particular duties or virtues may 
be traced back to such principles, analytically. »But, without 
such principles, we can no more establish any conclusion in morals, 
than we can build a castle in the air, without any foundation. 

An example or two will serve to illustrate this. 

[It is a first principle in morals, that we ought not to do to 
another what we should think wrong to be done to us in like 
circumstances.] If a man is not capable of perceiving this in 
his cool moments, when he reflects seriously, he is not a moral 
agent, nor is he capable of being convinced of it by reasoning. 

From what topic can you reason with such a man ? You may 
possibly convince him by reasoning, that it is his interest to ob- 
serve this rule ; but this is not to convince him that it is his 
duty. To reason about justice with a man who sees nothing to 
be just or unjust ; or about benevolence with a man who sees 
nothing in benevolence preferable to malice, is like reasoning 
with a blind man about colour, or with a deaf man about sound. 

HF It is a question in morals that admits of reasoning, whether, 
by the law of nature, a man ought to have only one wife ? 

We reason upon this question, by balancing the advantages 
and disadvantages to the family, and to society in general, that 
aie naturally consequent both upon monogamy and polygamy. 
And if it can be shown that the advantages are greatly upon the 
side of monogamy, we think the point is determined. 

But if a man does not perceive that he ought to regard the 
good of society, and the good of his wife and children, the rea- 
soning can have no effect upon him, because he denies the first 
principle upon which it is grounded. 

Suppose again, that we reason for monogamy from the inten- 
tion of nature, discovered by the proportion of males and of 
females that are born ; a proportion which corresponds perfectly 
with monogamy, but by no means with polygamy. This argu- 



230 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VI. 

ment can have no weight with a man who does not perceive that 
he ought to have a regard to the intention of nature. 

Thus we shall find that all moral reasonings rest upon one or 
more first principles of morals, whose truth is immediately per- 
ceived without reasoning, by all men come to years of under- 
standing. 

V. Universality of first principles. — And [this indeed is com- 
mon to every branch of human knowledge that deserves the name 
of science. There must be first principles proper to that science, 
by which the whole superstructure is supported.] 

The first principles of all the sciences must be the immediate 
dictates of our natural faculties ; nor is it possible that we 
should have any other evidence of their truth. And in different 
sciences, the faculties which dictate their first principles are very 
different. 

@§F Thus, in astronomy and in optics, in which such wonderful 
discoveries have been made, that the unlearned can hardly believe 
them to be within the reach of human capacity, the first prin- 
ciples are phenomena attested solely by that little organ, the 
human eye. If we disbelieve its report, the whole of those two 
noble fabrics of science falls to pieces like the visions of the 
night. 

The principles of music all depend upon the testimony of the 
ear. The principles of natural philosophy, upon the facts at- 
tested by the senses. The principles of mathematics, upon the 
necessary relations of quantities considered abstractly, such as, 
that equal quantities added to equal quantities make equal sums, 
and the like ; which necessary relations are immediately per- 
ceived by the understanding. 

The science of politics borrows its principles from what we 
know by experience of the character and conduct of man. We 
consider not what he ought to be, but what he is, and thence 
conclude what part he will act in different situations and circum- 
stances. From such principles we reason concerning the causes 
and effects of different forms of government, laws, customs, and 
manners. If man were either a more perfect or a more imper- 
fect, a better or a worse creature than he is, politics would be a 
different science from what it is. 

VI. The first principles of morals are the immediate dictates of 
the moral faculty. They show us, not what man is, but what he 
ought to be. Whatever is immediately perceived to be just, 
honest, and honourable, in human conduct, carries moral obli- 
gation along with it, and the contrary carries demerit and blame ; 
and, from those moral obligations that are immediately perceived, 
all other moral obligations must be deduced by reasoning. 

He that will judge of the colour of an object, must consult his 
eyes, in a good light, when there is no medium or contiguous 



OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DISAPPROBATION. £>31 

objects that may give it a false tinge. But in vain will he con- 
sult every other faculty in this matter. 

In like manner, he that will judge of the first principles of 

J morals, must consult his conscience or moral faculty when he is f 
calm and dispassionate, unbiassed by interest, affection, or fashion.^ 
( As we rely upon the clear and distinct testimony of our eyes, 
concerning the colours and figures of the bodies about us, we 
have the same reason to rely with security upon the clear and 
unbiassed testimony of our conscience, with regard to what we 
ought and ought not to do.y In many cases, moral worth and 
demerit are discerned no less clearly by the last of those natural 
faculties, than figure and colour by the first. 

The faculties which nature hath given us, are the only engines 
we can use to find out the truth. We cannot indeed prove, that 
those faculties are not fallacious, unless God should give us 
new faculties to sit in judgment upon the old. But we are born 
under a necessity of trusting them.* 

Every man in his senses believes his eyes, his ears, and his 
other senses. He believes his consciousness, with respect to his 
own thoughts and purposes ; his memory, with regard to what is 
past ; his understanding, with regard to abstract relations of things ; 
and his taste, with regard to what is elegant and beautiful. And 
he has the same reason, and, indeed, is under the same necessity 
of believing the clear and unbiassed dictates of his conscience, 
with regard to what is honourable and what is base. 

VII. Recapitulation. — [The sum of what has been said in this 
chapter is, (1) that, by an original power of the mind, which we 
call conscience, or the moral faculty , we have the conceptions of 
right and wrong in human conduct, of merit and demerit, of duty 
and moral obligation, and our other moral conceptions ; and that, 
(2) by the same faculty, we perceive some things in human con- 
duct to be right, and others to be wrong ; (3) that the first prin- 
ciples of morals are the dictates of this faculty ; and (4) that we 
have the same reason to rely upon those dictates, as upon the 
determinations of our senses, or of our other natural faculties.] 



CHAPTER VII. 

OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DISAPPROBATION. 

I. Of affections and feelings included in our moral judgments. 
— Our moral judgments are not like those we form in specula- 
tive matters, dry and unaffecting, but, from their nature, are 
* Vide Essay IV. chap. vi. sect. 1. 



232 ESSAY III.— PART BE. CHAP. VII. 

necessarily accompanied with affections and feelings ; which we 
are now to consider. 

It was before observed, that every human action, considered 
in a moral view, appears to us good, or bad, or indifferent. When 
we judge the action to be indifferent, neither good nor bad, 
though this be a moral judgment, it produces no affection nor 
feeling, any more than our judgments in speculative matters. 

But we approve of good actions, and disapprove of bad ; and 
this approbation and disapprobation, when we analyse it, appears 
to include, not only a moral judgment of the action, but some 
affection, favourable or unfavourable, towards the agent, and 
same feeling in ourselves. 

( Nothing is more evident than this, that moral worth, even in 
a\tranger, with whom we have not the leasfconnexion, never 
fails to produce some degree of esteem mixed with good will.\ 

The esteem which we have for a man on account of his moral 
worth, is different from that which is grounded upon his intel- 
lectual accomplishments, his birth, fortune, and connexion with 
us. 

I§F Moral worth, when it is not set off by eminent abilities, 
and external advantages, is like a diamond in the mine, which is 
rough and unpolished, and perhaps crusted over with some baser 
material that takes away its lustre. 

t But, when it is attended with these advantages, it is like a 
diamond cut, polished, and set. J Then its lustre attracts every 
eye. Yet these things which add so much to its appearance, add 
but little to its rgal value. 

II. [We must further observe, that esteem and benevolent re- 
gard, not only accompany real worth by the constitution of our 
nature, but are perceived to be really and properly due to it ; 
and that, on the contrary, unworthy conduct really merits dis- 
like and indignation.] 

There is no judgment of the heart of man more clear or more 
irresistible than this, — that esteem and regard are really due to 
good conduct, and the contrary to base and unworthy conduct. 
Nor can we conceive a greater depravity in the heart of man, 
than it would be to see and acknowledge worth without feeling 
any respect to it ; or to see and acknowledge the highest worth- 
lessness without any degree of dislike and indignation. 

The esteem that is due to worthy conduct is not lessened 
when a man is conscious of it in himself. Nor can he help 
having some esteem for himself, when he is conscious of those 
qualities for which he most highly esteems others. 

Self-esteem, grounded upon external advantages, or the gifts 
of fortune, is pride. When it is grounded upon a vain conceit 
of inward worth which we do not possess, it is arrogance and 
self-deceit. [But when a man, without thinking of himself 



OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DISAPPROBATION. ggg 

more highly than he ought to think, is conscious of that inte- 
grity of heart and uprightness of conduct, which he most highly 
esteems in others, and values himself duly upon this account ; 
this perhaps may be called the pride of virtue, but it is not a 
vicious pride. ( It is a noble and magnanimous disposition, with- 
out which there can be no steady virtue.] 

( A man who has a character with himself which he values, will 
disdain to act in a manner unworthy of it. J The language of his 
heart will be like that of Job, " My righteousness I hold fast, and 
will not let it go ; my heart shall not reproach me while I live." 

A good man owes much to his character with the world, and 
will be concerned to vindicate it from unjust imputations. But 
he owes much more to his character with himself. / For if his 
heart condemns him not, he has confidence towards God ; and 
he can more easily bear the lash of tongues than the reproach of 
his own mind. ) 

The sense of honour, so much spoken of, and so often mis- 
applied, is nothing else, when rightly understood, but the dis- 
dain which a man of worth feels to do a dishonourable action, 
though it should never be known nor suspected. 

A good man will have a much greater abhorrence against doing 
a bad action, than even against having it unjustly imputed to 
him. The last may give a wound to his reputation, but the first 
gives a wound to his conscience, which is more difficult to heal, 
and more painful to endure. 

III. Moral disapprobation. — [Let us, on the other hand, con- 
sider how we are affected by disapprobation, either of the conduct 
of others or of our own.] 

Every thing we disapprove in the conduct of a man, lessens 
him in our esteem. There are indeed brilliant faults, which, 
having a mixture of good and ill in them, may have a very dif- 
ferent aspect, according to the side on which we view them, 
/in such faults of our friends, and much more of ourselves, we 
are disposed to view them on the best side, and on the contrary 
side in those to whom we are ill affected. ) 

This partiality, in taking things by the' best or by the worst 
I handle, is the chief cause of wrong judgment with regard to the 
(character of others, and of self-deceit with regard to our own. 

But when we take complex actions to pieces, and view every 
part by itself, ill conduct of every kind lessens our esteem of a 
man, as much as good conduct increases it.^" It is apt to turn 
love into indifference, indifference into contempt, and contempt 
into aversion and abhorrence. ) 

When a man is conscious of immoral conduct in himself, it 
lessens his self-esteem. It depresses and humbles his spirit, and 
makes his countenance to fall. He could even punish himself 
for his misbehaviour, if that could wipe out the stain. There is 



^34 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VII. 

a sense of dishonour and worthlessness arising from guilt, as well 
as a sense of honour and worth arising from worthy conduct. 
( And this is the case, even if a man could conceal his guilt from 
all the world. \ 

IV. We are next to consider the agreeable or uneasy feelings, 
in the breast of the spectator or judge, which naturally accom- 
pany moral approbation and disapprobation. 

There is no affection that is not accompanied with some agree- 
able or uneasy emotion. It has often been observed, that all the 
benevolent affections give pleasure, and the contrary ones pain, 
in one degree or another. 

HUT When we contemplate a noble character, though but in 
ancient history, or even in fiction ; like a beautiful object, it 
gives a lively and pleasant emotion to the spirits. It warms the 
heart, and invigorates the whole frame. ( Like the beams of the 
sun, it enlivens the face of nature, and diffuses heat and light all 
around. V 

We feel a sympathy with every noble and worthy character 
that is represented to us. We rejoice in his prosperity, we are 
afflicted in his distress. We even catch some sparks of that 
celestial fire that animated his conduct, and feel the glow of his 
virtue and magnanimity. 

[This sympathy is the necessary effect of our judgment of his 
conduct, and of the approbation and esteem due to it ; for real 
sympathy is always the effect of some benevolent affection, such 
as esteem, love, pity, or humanity.] 

When the person whom we approve is connected with us by 
acquaintance, friendship, or blood, the pleasure we derive from 
his conduct is greatly increased. We claim some property in his 
worth, and are apt to value ourselves on account of it. This 
shows a stronger degree of sympathy, which gathers strength 
from every social tie. 

V. But the highest pleasure of all is, when we are conscious of 
good conduct in ourselves. This, in sacred scripture, is called 
the testimony of a good conscience ; and it is represented, not 
only in the sacred writings, but in the writings of all moralists, 
of every age and sect, as the purest, the most noble and valuable 
of all human enjoyments. 

C Surely, were we to place the chief happiness of this life (a 
thing that has been so much sought after) in any one kind of 
enjoyment, that which arises from the consciousness of integrity, 
and a uniform endeavour to act the best part in our station, 
would most justly claim the preference to all other enjoyments 
the human mind is capable of, on account of its dignity, the 
intenseness of the happiness it affords, its stability and duration, 
its being in our power, and its being proof against all accidents 
of time and fortune. \ 



OF MORAL APPROBATION AND DISAPPROBATION. 6)35 

8ggF On the other hand, the view of a vicious character, like 
that of an ugly and deformed object, is disagreeable. It gives 
disgust and abhorrence. 

If the unworthy person be nearly connected with us, we have 
a very painful sympathy indeed. We blush even for the smaller 
faults of those we are connected with, and feel ourselves, as it 
were, dishonoured by their ill conduct. 

But, when there is a high degree of depravity in any person 
connected with us, we are deeply humbled and depressed by it. 
The sympathetic feeling has some resemblance to that of guilt, 
though it be free from all guilt. We are ashamed to see our 
acquaintance ; we would, if possible, disclaim all connexion with 
the guilty person. We wish to tear him from our hearts, and to 
blot him out of our remembrance. 

Time, however, alleviates those sympathetic sorrows which 
arise from bad behaviour in our friends and connexions, if we 
are conscious that we had no share in their guilt. 

VI. Social ties auxiliary to virtue, unfavourable to vice. — ■ 
[The wisdom of God, in the constitution of our nature, hath 
intended, that this sympathetic distress should interest us the 

(more deeply in the good behaviour, as well as in the good fortune, 
Jof our friends ; and that thereby friendship, relation, and every 
/social tie, should be aiding to virtue and unfavourable to vice.] 
^ How common is it, even in vicious parents, to be deeply 
afflicted when their children go into these courses in which per- 
haps they have gone before them, and, by their example, shown 
them the way. 

If bad conduct in those in whom we are interested, be uneasy 
and painful, it is so much more when we are conscious of it in 
ourselves. This uneasy feeling has a name in all languages. We 
call it remorse. 

It has been described in such frightful colours by writers 
sacred and profane, by writers of every age and of every persua- 
sion, even by Epicureans, that I will not attempt the description 
of it. 

VII. Consequences of remorse. — It is on account of the un- 
easiness of this feeling, that bad men take so much pains to get 
rid of it, and to hide, even from their own eyes, as much as pos- 
sible, the pravity of their conduct. [Hence arise (1) all the arts 
of self-deceit, by which men varnish their crimes, or endeavour 
to wash out the stain of guilt. Hence (2) the various methods 
of expiation which superstition has invented, to solace the con- 
science of the criminal, and give some cooling to his parched 
breast. Hence also arise, very often, (3) the efforts of men of 
bad hearts to excel in some amiable quality, which may be a 
kind of counterpoise to their vices, both in the opinion of others 
and in their own.] 



236 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VII. 

For no man can bear the thought of being absolutely destitute 
of all worth. The consciousness of this would make him detest 
himself, hate the light of the sun, and fly, if possible, out of 
existence. 

VIII. Operations of the faculty called moral sense. — I have 
now endeavoured to delineate the natural operations of that prin- 
ciple of action in man, which we call the moral sense, the moral 
faculty, conscience. We know nothing of our natural faculties, 
but by their operations within us. Of their operations in our 
own minds, we are conscious, and we see the signs of their ope- 
rations in the minds of others. [Of this faculty the operations 
appear to be, the judging ultimately of what is right, what is 
wrong, and what is indifferent, in the conduct of moral agents ; 
the approbation of good conduct and disapprobation of bad in 
consequence of that judgment, and the agreeable emotions which 
attend obedience, and disagreeable which attend disobedience to 
its dictates.] 

The Supreme Being, who has given us eyes to discern what 
may be useful and what hurtful to our natural life, hath also 
given us this light within to direct our moral conduct. 

(Moral conduct is the business of every man; and therefore 
he knowledge of it ought to be within the reach of all. \ 

Epicurus reasoned acutely and justly to show, that a regard 
to our present happiness should induce us to the practice of 
temperance, justice, and humanity. But the bulk of mankind 
cannot follow long trains of reasoning. |The loud voice of the 
passions drowns the calm and still voice of reasoning. \ 

Conscience commands and forbids with more authority, and, 
in the most common and most important points of conduct, with- 
out the labour of reasoning. Its voice is heard by every man, 
and cannot be disregarded with impunity. 

The sense of guilt makes a man at variance with himself. He 
sees that he is what he ought not to be. He has fallen from the 
dignity of his nature, and has sold his real worth for a thing of 
no value. He is conscious of demerit, and cannot avoid the 
dread of meeting with its reward. 

On the other hand, he who pays a sacred regard to the dictates 

of his conscience, cannot fail of a present reward, and a reward 

proportioned to the exertion required in doing his duty. 

| The man who, in opposition to strong temptation, by a noble 

^effort maintains his integrity, is the happiest man on earth, j The 

. more severe his conflict has been, the greater is his triumph. 

The consciousness of inward worth gives strength to his heart, 

and makes his countenance to shine. Tempests may beat and 

floods roar ; but he stands firm as a rock, in the joy of a good 

conscience, and confidence of Divine approbation.} 

[To this I shall only add, what every man's conscience die- 



OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. Qffl 

tates, that he who does his duty, from the conviction that it is 
right and honourable, and what he ought to do, acts from a 
nobler principle, and with more inward satisfaction, than he who 
is bribed to do it, merely from the consideration of a reward pre- 
sent or future.] 



CHAPTER VIII. 

OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. 

I. Our judgment of moral conduct advances from infancy by 
insensible degrees. — I shall now conclude this Essay with some 
observations concerning this power of the mind which we call 
conscience, by which its nature may be better understood. 

The first is, that, like all our other powers, it comes to matu- 
rity by insensible degrees, and may be much aided in its strength 
and vigour by proper culture. 

All the human faculties have their infancy and their state of 
maturity. 

The faculties which we have in common with the brutes ap- 
pear first, and have the quickest growth. In the first period of 
life, children are not capable of distinguishing right from wrong 
in human conduct ; neither are they capable of abstract reason- 
ing in matters of science. Their judgment of moral conduct, as 
well as their judgment of truth, advances by insensible degrees, 
like the corn and the grass. 

iiF In vegetables, first the blade or the leaf appears, then the 
flower, and last of all the fruit, the noblest production of the 
three, and that for which the others were produced. These 
succeed one another in a regular order. They require moisture 
and heat and air and shelter to bring them to maturity, and may 
be much improved by culture. According to the variations of 
soil, season, and culture, some plants are brought to much 
greater perfection than others of the same species. { But no 
variation of culture or season or soil can make grapes grow from 
thorns, or figs from thistles. J 

We may observe a similar progress in the faculties of the 
mind : for there is a wonderful analogy among all the works of 
God, from the least even to the greatest. 

The faculties of man unfold themselves in a certain order, ap- 
pointed by the great Creator. In their gradual progress, they 
may be greatly assisted or retarded, improved or corrupted, by 
education, instruction, example, exercise, and by the society 
J and conversation of men, which, like soil and culture in plants, 
i^may produce great changes to the better or to the worse. J 

II. [But these means can never produce any new faculties, 
nor any other than were originally planted in the mind by the 



238 ESSAY IIT.-PART TI. CHAP. VIII. 

Author of nature. And what is common to the whole species, in 
all the varieties of instruction and education, of improvement 
and degeneracy, is the work of God, and not the operation of 
second causes.^ 

Such we may justly account conscience, or the faculty of dis- 
tinguishing right conduct from wrong ; since it appears, and in all 
nations and -ages has appeared, in men that are come to maturity. 

The seeds, as it were, of moral discernment are planted in 
the mind by Him that made us : they grow up in their proper 
season, and are at first tender and delicate, and easily warped. 
Their progress depends very much upon their being duly culti- 
vated and properly exercised. 

It is so with the power of reasoning, which all acknowledge 
to be one of the most eminent natural faculties of man. It ap- 
pears not in infancy. It springs up, by insensible degrees, as 
we grow to maturity. £ But its strength and vigour depend so 
much upon its being duly cultivated and exercised, that we see 
many individuals, nay, many nations, in which it is hardly to be 
perceived. ! 

Our intellectual discernment is not so strong and vigorous by 
nature, as to secure us from errors in speculation. On the con- 
trary, we see a great part of mankind, in every age, sunk in 
gross ignorance of things that are obvious to the more enlight- 
ened, and fettered by errors and false notions, which the human 
understanding, duly improved, easily throws off. 

III. Scepticism twofold. — [It would be extremely absurd, from 
the errors and ignorance of mankind, to conclude (1) that there 
is no such thing as truth; or (2) that ma?i has not a natural 
faculty of discerning it, and distinguishing it from error.]* 

In like manner, our moral discernment of what we ought, and 
what we ought not to do, is not so strong and vigorous by 
nature, as to secure us from very gross mistakes with regard to 
our duty. 

In matters of conduct, as well as in matters of speculation, 
we are liable to be misled by prejudices of education, or by 
wrong instruction. But, in matters of conduct, we are also 
very liable to have our judgment warped by our appetites and 
passions, by fashion, and by the contagion of evil example. 

We must not therefore think, because man has the natural 
power of discerning what is right and what is wrong, that he has 
no need of instruction ; that this power has no need of cultiva- 
tion and improvement ; that he may safely rely upon the sug- 
gestions of his mind, or upon opinions he has got, he knows 
not how. 
f fiaF What should we think of a man who, because he has by 
nature the power of moving all his limbs, should therefore con- 
* Vide Locke's Essays, book I. sect. 2. Introduction. 



OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. £>39 

elude that he needs not be taught to dance, or to fence, to ride, 
or to swim? All these exercises are performed by that power 
of moving our limbs, which we have by nature ; but they will 
be performed very awkwardly and imperfectly by those who 
have not been trained to them, and practised in them. / 

What should we think of the man who, because he has the 
power by nature of distinguishing what is true from wliat is 
false, should conclude that he has no need to be taught mathe- 
matics, or natural philosophy, or other sciences ? It is by the 
natural power of human understanding that every thing in those 
sciences has been discovered, and that the truths they contain 
are discerned. But the understanding, left to itself, without the 
aid of instruction, training, habit, and exercise, would make 
very small progress, as every one sees, in persons uninstructed 
in those matters. 

IV. [Our natural power of discerning between right and wrong 
needs the aid of instruction, education, exercise, and habit, as 
well as our other natural powers.] 

There are persons who, as the scripture speaks, have, by 
reason of use, their senses exercised to discern both good and 
evil ; by that means, they have a much quicker, clearer, and 
more certain judgment in morals than others. 

The man who neglects the means of improvement in the know- 
ledge of his duty, may do very bad things, while he follows the 
light of his mind. And though he be not culpable for acting 
according to his judgment, he may be very culpable for not 
using the means of having his judgment better informed. 

V. It may be observed, That there are truths, both specula- 
tive and moral, which a man left to himself would never discover ; 
yet, when they are fairly laid before him, he owns and adopts them, 
not barely upon the authority of his teacher, but upon their own 
intrinsic evidence, and perhaps wonders that he could be so blind 
as not to see them before. 

$W Like a man whose son has been long abroad, and sup- 
posed dead. After many years the son returns, and is not 
known by his father. He, would never find that this is his son. 
But, when he discovers himself, the father soon finds, by many 
circumstances, that this is his son who was lost, and can be no 
other person. 

[Truth has an affinity with the human understanding, which 
error has not. And right principles of conduct have an affinity 
with a candid mind, which wrong principles have not.] When 
they are set before it in a just light, a well disposed mind recog- 
nises this affinity, feels their authority, and perceives them to 
be genuine. It was this, I apprehend, that led Plato to con- 
ceive that the knowledge we acquire in the present state, is only 
reminiscence of what, in a former state, we were acquainted with. 



240 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 

A man born and brought up in a savage nation, may be taught 
to pursue injury with unrelenting malice, to the destruction of 
his enemy. Perhaps when he does so, his heart does not con- 
demn him. 

Yet, if he be fair and candid, and, when the tumult of passion 
is over, have the virtues of clemency, generosity, and forgive- 
ness, iaid before him, as they were taught and exemplified by 
the Divine Author of our religion, he will see, that it is more 
noble to overcome himself, and subdue a savage passion, than 
to destroy his enemy. He will see, that to make a friend of an 
enemy, and to overcome evil with good, is the greatest of all 
victories, and gives a manly and a rational delight, with which the 
brutish passion of revenge deserves not to be compared. He will 
see, that hitherto he acted like a man to his friends, but like a 
brute to his enemies : now he knows how to make his whole cha- 
racter consistent, and one part of it to harmonize with another. 

He must indeed be a great stranger to his own heart, and to 
the state of human nature, who does not see that he has need of 
all the aid which his situation affords him, in order to know 
how he ought to act in many cases that occur. 

VI. [A second observation is, That conscience is peculiar to 
man. We see not a vestige of it in brute-animals. It is one of 
those prerogatives by which we are raised above them.] 

Brute-animals have many faculties in common with us. They 
see, and hear, and taste, and smell, and feel. They have their 
pleasures and pains. They have various instincts and appetites. 
They have an affection for their offspring, and some of them for 
their herd or flock. Dogs have a wonderful attachment to their 
masters, and give manifest signs of sympathy with them. 

We see, in brute-animals, anger and emulation, pride and 
shame. Some of them are capable of being trained by habit, and 
by rewards and punishments, to many things useful to man. 

All this must be granted ; and if our perception of what we 
ought, and what we ought not to do, could be resolved into any 
of these principles, or into any combination of them, it would 
follow, that some brutes are moral agents, and accountable for 
their conduct. 

But common sense revolts against this conclusion. A man 
who seriously charged a brute with a crime, would be laughed 
at. They may do actions hurtful to themselves, or to man. 
They may have qualities, or acquire habits, that lead to such 
actions ; and this is all we mean when we call them vicious. 
But they cannot be immoral ; nor can they be virtuous. They 
are not capable of self-government ; and, when they act accord- 
ing to the passion or habit which is strongest at the time, they 
act according to the nature that God has given them, and no 
more can be required of them. 



OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. ^41 

They cannot lay down a rule to themselves, which they are 
not to transgress, though prompted by appetite, or ruffled by 
passion. We see no reason to think that they can form the con- 
ception of a general rule, or of obligation to adhere to it. 

They have no conception of a promise or contract ; nor can 
you enter into any treaty with them. They can neither affirm 
nor deny, nor resolve, nor plight their faith. If nature had made 
them capable of these operations, we should see the signs of 
them in their motions and gestures. 

[The most sagacious brutes never invented a language, nor 
learned the use of one before invented. They never formed a 
plan of government, nor transmitted inventions to their pos- 
terity.] 

These things, and many others that are obvious to common 
observation, show, that there is just reason why mankind have 
always considered the brute-creation as destitute of the noblest 
faculties with which God hath endowed man, and particularly of 
that faculty which makes us moral and accountable beings. 

VII. [The next observation is, That conscience is evidently 
intended by nature to be the immediate guide and director of our 
conduct, after we arrive at the years of understanding.] 

There are many things which, from their nature and structure, 
show intuitively the end for which they were made. 

$gW A man who knows the structure of a watch or clock, can 
have no doubt in concluding that it was made to measure time. 
And he that knows the structure of the eye, and the properties 
of light, can have as little doubt whether it was made that we 
might see by it. 

In the fabric of the body, the intention of the several parts 
is, in many instances, so evident, as to leave no possibility of 
doubt. Who can doubt whether the muscles were intended to 
move the parts in which they were inserted ? Whether the 
bones were intended to give strength and support to the body ; 
and some of them to guard the parts which they inclose ? 

When we attend to the structure of the mind, the intention of 
its various original powers is no less evident. Is it not evident, 
that the external senses are given, that we may discern those 
qualities of bodies which may be useful or hurtful to us ? 
Memory, that we may retain the knowledge we have acquired : 
judgment and understanding, that we may distinguish what is 
true from what is false ? 

VIII. The intention or end of our active powers obvious. — The 
natural appetites of hunger and thirst, the natural affections of 
parents to their offspring, and of relations to each other, the 
natural docility and credulity of children, the affections of pity 
and sympathy with the distressed, the attachment we feel to 
neighbours, to acquaintance, and to the laws and constitution of 

R 



\ 



24g ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 

our country; these are parts of our constitution, which plainly 
point out their end, so that he must be blind, or very inattentive, 
who does not perceive it. [Even the passions of anger and 
resentment, appear very plainly to be a kind of defensive armour, 
given by our Maker to guard us against injuries, and to deter the 
injurious.] 

Thus it holds generally with regard both to the intellectual 
and active powers of man, that the intention for which they are 
given is written in legible characters upon the face of them. 

IX. Office of conscience. — [Nor is this the case of any of them 
more evidently than of conscience. Its intention is manifestly 
implied in its office ; which is, to show us what is good, what 
bad, and what indifferent in human conduct.] 

It judges of every action before it is done. For we can rarely 
act so precipitately, but we have the consciousness that what we 
are about to do is right, or wrong, or indifferent. Like the 
bodily eye, it naturally looks forward, though its attention may 
be turned back to the past. 

To conceive, as some seem to have done, that its office is only 
to reflect on past actions, and to approve or disapprove, is, as if 
a man should conceive, that the office of his eyes is only to look 
back upon the road he has travelled, and to see whether it be 
clean or dirty ; a mistake which no man can make who has made 
the proper use of his eyes. 

Conscience prescribes measures to every appetite, affection, and 
passion, and says to every other principle of action, so far thou 
may est go, but no farther. 

We may indeed transgress its dictates, but we cannot trans- 
gress them with innocence, nor even with impunity. 

[We condemn ourselves, or, in the language of Scripture, 
our heart condemns us, whenever we go beyond the rules of right 
and wrong which conscience prescribes. 

Other principles of action may have more strength, but this 
only has authority.'] Its sentence makes us guilty to ourselves, 
and guilty in the eyes of our Maker, whatever other principle 
may be set in opposition to it. 

It is evident therefore, that this principle has, from its nature, 
an authority to direct and determine with regard to our conduct; 
to judge, to acquit, or to condemn, and even to punish ; an 
authority which belongs to no other principle of the human 
mind. 

KSF It is the candle of the Lord set up within us, to guide our 
steps. Other principles may urge and impel, but this only 
authorises. Other principles ought to be controlled by this ; 
this may be, but never ought to be, controlled by any other, and 
never can be with innocence. 

The authority of conscience over the other active principles of 



OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE. 243 

the mind, I do not consider as a point that requires proof by 
argument, but as self-evident. For it implies no more than this, 
That in all cases a man ought to do his duty. He only who 
does in all cases what he ought to do, is the perfect man. 

X. Stoical perfection ideal. — [Of this perfection in the human 
nature, the Stoics formed the idea, and held it forth in their 
writings as the goal to which the race of life ought to be directed. 
Their wise man was one in whom a regard to the hones turn swal- 
lowed up every other principle of action.] 

The wise man of the Stoics, like the perfect orator of the rheto- 
ricians, was an ideal character, and was, in some respects, carried 
beyond nature ; yet it was perhaps the most perfect model of 
virtue, that ever was exhibited to the heathen world ; and some 
of those who copied after it, were ornaments to human nature. 

XI. [The last observation is, That the moral faculty or con- 
science is both an active and an intellectual power of the mind.] 

It is an active power, as every truly virtuous action must be 
more or less influenced by it. Other principles may concur with 
it, and lead the same way ; but no action can be called morally 
good, in which a regard to what is right has not some influence. 
Thus a man who has no regard to justice, may pay his just debt, 
from no other motive, but that he may not be thrown into prison. 
I In this action there is no virtue at all. j 

The moral principle, in particular cases, may be opposed by 
any of our animal principles. Passion or appetite may urge to 
what we know- to be wrong. In every instance of this kind, the 
moral principle ought to prevail, and the more difficult its con- 
quest is, it is the more glorious. 

[In some cases, a regard to what is right may be the sole 
motive, without the concurrence or opposition of any other prin- 
ciple of action ; as when a judge or an arbiter determines a plea 
between two indifferent persons, solely from a regard to justice. 

Thus we see, that conscience, as an active principle, sometimes 
concurs with other active principles, sometimes opposes them, 
and sometimes is the sole principle of action.] 

I endeavoured before to show, that a regard to our own good 
upon the whole is not only a rational principle of action, but a 
leading principle, to which all our animal principles are subordi- 
nate. As there are, therefore, two regulating or leading princi- 
ples in the constitution of man, a regard to what is best for us 
upon the whole, and a regard to duty, it may be asked, Which 
of these ought to yield if they happen to interfere ? 

XII. Extravagance of Mysticism. — Some well meaning per- 
sons have maintained, [That all regard to ourselves and to our 
own happiness ought to be extinguished ; that we should love 
virtue for its own sake only, even though it were to be accom- 
panied with eternal misery.] 

r 2 



244 ESSAY III.— PART II. CHAP. VIII. 

This seems to have been the extravagance of some Mystics, 
which perhaps they were led into, in opposition to a contrary 
extreme of the schoolmen of the middle ages, who. made the 
desire of good to ourselves to be the sole motive to action, and 
virtue to be approvable only on account of its present or future 
reward. 

Juster views of human nature will teach us to avoid both these 
extremes. 

On the one hand, the disinterested love of virtue is undoubt- 
edly the noblest principle in human nature, and ought never to 
stoop to any other. 

On the other hand, there is no active principle which God 
hath planted in our nature that is vicious in itself, or that ought 
to be eradicated, even if it were in our power. 

They are all useful and necessary in our present state. The 
perfection of human nature consists, not in extinguishing, but in 
restraining them within their proper bounds, and keeping them 
in due subordination to the governing principles. 
- XIII. [As to the supposition of an opposition between the two 
governing principles, that is, between a regard to our happiness 
upon the whole, and a regard to duty, this supposition is merely 
imaginary. There can be no such opposition.] 

While the world is under a wise and benevolent administra- 
tion, it is impossible that any man should, in the issue, be a loser 
by doing his duty. ^ Every man, therefore, who believes in God, 
while he is careful to do his duty, may safely leave the care of 
his happiness to Him who made him. He is conscious that he 
consults the last most effectually, by attending to the firstj 

Indeed, if we suppose a man to be an atheist in his belief, and, 
at the same time, by wrong judgment, to believe that virtue is 
contrary to his happiness upon the whole, this case, as Lord 
Shaftesbury justly observes, is without remedy. It will be 
impossible for the man to act so as not to contradict a leading 
principle of his nature. He must either sacrifice his happiness 
to virtue, or virtue to happiness ; and is reduced to this miserable 
dilemma, whether it be best to be a fool or a knave. 

[This shows the strong connexion between morality and the 
principles of natural religion; as the last only can secure a man 
from the possibility of an apprehension, that he may play the 
fool by doing his duty.] 

Hence even Lord Shaftesbury, in his gravest work, concludes, 
That virtue without piety is incomplete. Without piety it loses 
its brightest example, its noblest object, and its firmest support. 

XIV. [I conclude with observing, That conscience, or the 
moral faculty, is likewise an intellectual power. ,] 

By it solely we have the original conceptions or ideas of right 
and wrong in human conduct. And of right and wrong, there 



OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING CONSCIENCE, g^^ 

are not only many different degrees, but many different species. 
Justice and injustice, gratitude and ingratitude, benevolence and 
malice, prudence and folly, magnanimity and meanness, decency 
and indecency, are various moral forms, all comprehended under 
the general notion of right and wrong in conduct, all of them 
objects of moral approbation or disapprobation, in a greater or a 
less degree. 

The conception of these, as moral qualities, we have by our 
moral faculty ; and by the same faculty, when we compare them 
together, we perceive various moral relations among them. Thus 
we perceive that justice is entitled to a small degree of praise, 
but injustice to a high degree of blame ; and the same may be 
said of gratitude and its contrary. When justice and gratitude 
interfere, gratitude must give place to justice, and unmerited 
beneficence must give place to both. 

Many such relations between the various moral qualities com- 
pared together, are immediately discerned by our moral faculty. 
A man needs only to consult his own heart to be convinced of 
them. 

All our reasonings in morals, in natural jurisprudence, in the 
law of nations, as well as our reasonings about the duties of 
natural religion, and about the moral government of the Deity, 
must be grounded upon the dictates of our moral faculty, as first 
principles. 

As this faculty, therefore, furnishes the human mind with 
many of its original conceptions or ideas, as well as with the first 
principles of many important branches of human knowledge, it 
may justly be accounted an intellectual, as well as an active 
power of the mindr 



ESSAY IV. 

OF THE LIBERTY OF MORAL AGENTS. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE NOTIONS OF MORAL LIBERTY AND NECESSITY STATED. 

I. Moral liberty. — By the liberty of a moral agent, I under- 
stand, a power over the determinations of his own will. 

If, in any action, he had power to will what he did, or not to 
will it, in that action he is free. But if, in every voluntary 
action, the determination of his will be the necessary conse- 
quence of something involuntary in the state of his mind, or of 
something in his external circumstances, he is not free ; he has 
not what I call the liberty of a moral agent, but is subject to 
necessity. 

This liberty supposes the agent to have understanding and 
will ; for the determinations of the will are the sole object about 
which this power is employed ; and there can be no will without, 
at least, such a degree of understanding as gives the conception 
of that which we will. 

[The liberty of a moral agent implies, not only a conception 
of what he wills, but some degree of practical judgment or 
reason.] 

For if he has not the judgment to discern one determination 
to be preferable to another, either in itself, or for some purpose 
which he intends, what can be the use of a power to determine ? 
His determinations must be made perfectly in the dark, without 
reason, motive, or end. They can neither be right nor wrong, 
wise nor foolish. Whatever the consequences may be, they 
cannot be imputed to the agent, who had not the capacity of 
foreseeing them, or of perceiving any reason for acting otherwise 
than he did. 

We may perhaps be able to conceive a being endowed with 
power over the determinations of his will, without any light in 
his mind to direct that power to some end. But such power 
would be given in vain. No exercise of it could be either 
blamed or approved. As nature gives no power in vain, I see 
no ground to ascribe a power over the determinations of the 
will to any being who has no judgment to apply it to the direction 



THE NOTIONS OF MORAL LIBERTY, ETC. £47 

of his conduct, no discernment of what he ought or ought not 
to do. 

For that reason, in this Essay, I speak only of the liberty of 
moral agents, who are capable of acting well or ill, wisely or 
foolishly, and this, for distinction's sake, I shall call moral 
liberty. 

II. The voluntary actions of brutes determined by the present 
predominant passion. — What kind, or what degree of liberty 
belongs to brute animals, or to our own species, before any use 
of reason, I do not know. We acknowledge that they have not 
the power of self-government. [Such of their actions as may 
be called voluntary, seem to be invariably determined by the 
passion or appetite, or affection or habit, which is strongest at 
the time.] 

This seems to be the law of their constitution, to which they 
yield, as the inanimate creation does, without any conception of 
the law, or any intention of obedience. 

But of civil or moral government, which are addressed to the 
rational powers, and require a conception of the law and an 
intentional obedience, they are, in the judgment of all mankind, 
incapable. Nor do I see what end could be served by giving 
them a power over the determinations of their own will, unless to 
make them intractable by discipline, which we see they are not. 

III. [The effect of moral liberty is, That it is in the power of 
the agent to do well or ill.] (This power, like every other gift 
of God, may be.abusedj The right use of this gift of God is to 
do well and wisely, as far as his best judgment can direct him, 
and thereby merit esteem and approbation. The abuse of it is 
to act contrary to what he knows or suspects to be his duty and 
his wisdom, and thereby justly merit disapprobation and blame. 

IV. [By necessity, I understand the want of that moral liberty 
which I have above defined.] 

If there can be a better and a worse in actions on the system 
of necessity, let us suppose a man necessarily determined in all 
cases to will and to do what is best to be done, he would surely 
be innocent and inculpable. But, as far as I am able to judge, 
he would not be entitled to the esteem and moral approbation 
of those who knew and believed this necessity. What was, by 
an ancient author, said of Cato, might indeed be said of him. 
He was good because he could not be otherwise. But this saying, 
if understood literally and strictly, is not the praise of Cato, but 
of his constitution, which was no more the work of Cato, than 
his existence. 

On the other hand, if a man be necessarily determined to do 
ill, this case seems to me to move pity, but not disapprobation. 
He was ill, because he could not be otherwise. Who can blame 
him ? Necessity has no law. 

If he knows that he acted under this necessity, has he not just 



y 



243 ESSAY IV. CHAP. I. 

ground to exculpate himself? The blame, if there be any, is 
not in him, but in his constitution. If he be charged by his 
Maker with doing wrong, may he not expostulate with him, and 
say, Why hast thou made me thus ? I may be sacrificed at thy 
pleasure for the common good, like a man that has the plague, 
but not for ill desert ; for thou knowest that what I am charged 
with is thy work, and not mine. 

Y. [Such are my notions of moral liberty and necessity, and 
of the consequences inseparably connected with both the one and 
the other.] 

This moral liberty a man may have, though it do not extend 
to all his actions, or even to all his voluntary actions. He does 
many things by instinct, many things by the force of habit with- 
out any thought at all, and consequently without will. In the 
first part of life, he has not the power of self-government any 
more than the brutes. That power over the determinations of 
his own will, which belongs to him in ripe years, is limited, as 
all his powers are ; and it is perhaps beyond the reach of his 
understanding to define its limits with precision. We can only 
say, in general, that it extends to every action for which he is 
accountable. 

This power is given by his Maker, and at his pleasure, whose 
gift it is : it may be enlarged or diminished, continued or with- 
drawn. LNo power in the creature can be independent of the 
Creator.) His hook is in its nose ; he can give it line as far as 
he sees fit, and when he pleases, can restrain it, or turn it 
whithersoever he will. Let this be always understood, when we 
ascribe liberty to man, or to any created being. 

VI. [Supposing it therefore to be true, That man is a free 
agent, it may be true, at the same time, that his liberty may be 
impaired or lost, (1) by disorder of body or mind, as in melan- 
choly, or in madness ; it may be impaired or lost (2) by vicious 
habits ; it may, in particular cases, (3) be restrained by Divine 
interposition.] 

We call a man a free agent in the same way as we call him 
a reasonable agent. In many things he is not guided by reason, 
but by principles similar to those of the brutes. His reason is 
weak at best. It is liable to be impaired or lost, by his own 
fault, or by other means. In like manner, he may be a free 
agent, though his freedom of action may have many similar 
limitations. 

The liberty I have described has been represented by some 
philosophers as inconceivable, and as involving an absurdity. 

" Liberty, they say, consists only in a power to act as we will; 
and it is impossible to conceive in any being a greater liberty 
than this. Hence it follows, that liberty does not extend to the 
determinations of the will, but only to the actions consequent to 



THE NOTIONS OF MORAL LIBERTY, ETC. ^AQ 

its determination, and depending upon the will. To say that 
we have power to will such an action, is to say, that we may will 
it, if we will. This supposes the will to be determined by a 
prior will ; and, for the same reason, that will must be deter- 
mined by a will prior to it, and so on in an infinite series of 
wills, which is absurd. To act freely, therefore, can mean 
nothing more than to act voluntarily ; and this is all the liberty 
that can be conceived in man, or in any being." 

This reasoning, first, I think, advanced by Hobbes, has been 
very generally adopted by the defenders of necessity. It is 
grounded upon a definition of liberty totally different from that 
which I have given, and therefore does not apply to moral 
liberty,* as above defined. 

VII. Three additional meanings of the word liberty. — [But it 
is said that this is the only liberty that is possible, that is con- 
ceivable, that does not involve an absurdity.] 

It is strange, indeed ! if the word liberty has no meaning but 
this one. I shall mention three, all very common. The objec- 
tion applies to one of them, but to neither of the other two. 

[Liberty is sometimes opposed to external force or confine- 
ment of the body. Sometimes it is opposed to obligation by 
law, or by lawful authority. Sometimes it is opposed to 
necessity.] 

1 . It is opposed to confinement of the body by superior force. 
So we say a prisoner is set at liberty when his fetters are knocked 
off, and he is discharged from confinement. This is the liberty 
defined in the objection ; and I grant that this liberty extends 
not to the will, neither does the confinement, because the will 
cannot be confined by external force. 

2. Liberty is opposed to obligation by law, or lawful authority. 
This liberty is a right to act one way or another, in things which 
the law has neither commanded nor forbidden ; and this liberty 
is meant when we speak of a man's natural liberty, his civil 
liberty, his Christian liberty. It is evident that this liberty, as 
well as the obligation opposed to it, extends to the will: for it 
is the will to obey that makes obedience ; the will to transgress 
that makes a transgression of the law. Without will there can 
be neither obedience nor transgression. Law supposes a power 
to obey or to transgress ; it does not take away this power, but 
proposes the motives of duty and of interest, leaving the power 
to yield to them, or to take the consequence of transgression. 

3. Liberty is opposed to necessity, and in this sense it extends 
to the determinations of the will only, and not to what is conse- 
quent to the will. 

In every voluntary action, the determination of the will is the 
first part of the action, upon which alone the moral estimation of 
* Vide sect. i. and ii. of this chapter. 



250 ESSAY IV. CHAP. I. 

it depends. It has been made a question among philosophers, 
Whether, in every instance, this determination be the necessary 
consequence of the constitution of the person, and the circum- 
stances in which he is placed ; or whether he had not power in 
many cases, to determine this way or that ? 

This has, by some, been called the philosophical notion of 
liberty and necessity ; but it is by no means peculiar to philoso- 
phers. The lowest of the vulgar have, in all ages, been prone 
to have recourse to this necessity, to exculpate themselves or 
their friends in what they do wrong, though, in the general 
tenor of their conduct, they act upon the contrary principle. 

VIII. Whether this notion of moral liberty be conceivable or 
not, every man must judge for himself. To me there appears no 
difficulty in conceiving it. I consider the determination of the 
will as an effect. This effect must have a cause which had power 
to produce it ; and the cause must be either the person himself, 
whose will it is, or some other being. The first is as easily con- 
ceived as the last. If the person was the cause of that deter- 
mination of his own will, he was free in that action, and it is 
justly imputed to him, whether it be good or bad. But, if 
another being was the cause of this determination, either 'by 
producing it immediately, or by means and instruments under 
his direction, then the determination is the act and deed of that 
being, and is solely imputable to him. 

But it is said, " That nothing is in our power but what depends 
upon the will, and therefore the will itself cannot be in our 
power." 

I answer, That this is a fallacy arising from taking a common 
saying in a sense which it never was intended to convey, and in a 
sense contrary to what it necessarily implies. 

In common life, when men speak of what is, or is not, in a 
man's power, they attend only to the external and visible effects, 
which only can be perceived, and which only can affect them. 
Of these, it is true, that nothing is in a man's power, but what 
depends upon his will, and this is all that is meant by this com- 
mon saying. 

But this is so far from excluding his will from being in his 
power, that it necessarily implies it. For to say that what de- 
pends upon the will is in a man's power, but the will is not in 
his power, is to say that the end is in his power, but the means 
necessary to that end are not in his power, which is a con- 
tradiction. 

[In many propositions which we express universally, there is 
an exception necessarily implied, and therefore always under- 
stood. Thus when we say, that all things depend upon God, 
God himself is necessarily excepted. In like manner, when we 
say, that all that is in our power depends upon the will, the will 



OF THE WORDS CAUSE AND EFFECT, ETC. 251 

itself is necessarily excepted: [for if the will be not, nothing 
else can be in our power.] Every effect must be in the power of 
its cause. The determination of the will is an effect, and there- 
fore must be in the power of its cause, whether that cause be 
the agent himself, or some other being. 

From what has been said in this chapter, I hope the notion of 
moral liberty will be distinctly understood, and that it appears 
that this notion is neither inconceivable, nor involves any ab- 
surdity or contradiction. 



CHAPTER II. 

OF THE WORDS CAUSE AND EFFECT, ACTION, AND ACTIVE POWER. 

I. Tlie use of ambiguous terms has impeded our reasonings 
about moral liberty. — The writings upon liberty and necessity 
have been much darkened, by the ambiguity of the words used 
in reasoning upon that subject. The words cause and effect, action 
and active power, liberty and necessity, are related to each other. 
The meaning of one determines the meaning of the rest. When we 
attempt to define them, we can only do it by synonymous words 
which need definition as much. There is a strict sense in which 
those words must be used, if we speak and reason clearly about 
moral liberty ; but to keep to this strict sense is difficult, be- 
cause in all languages they have, by custom, got a great latitude 
of signification. 

As we camiot reason about moral liberty, without using those 
ambiguous words, it is proper to point out, as distinctly as pos- 
sible, their proper and original meaning, in which they ought to 
be understood in treating of this subject, and to show from what 
causes they have become so ambiguous in all languages 3 as to 
darken and embarrass our reasonings upon it. 

[Every thing that begins to exist, must have a cause of its ex- 
istence, which had power to give it existence.] [And every 
thing that undergoes any change, must have some cause of that 
change.] 

That neither existence, nor any mode of existence, can begin 
without an efficient cause, is a principle that appears very early 
in the mind of man ; and it is so universal, and so firmly rooted 
in human nature, that the most determined scepticism cannot 
.eradicate it. 

It is upon this principle that we ground the rational belief of 
a Deity. \ But that is not the only use to which we apply it. 
Every man's conduct is governed by it every day, and almost 
every hour of his life. And if it were possible for any man to 
root out this principle from his mind, he must give up every 



252 ESSAY IV. CHAP. II. 

thing that is called common prudence, and be fit only to be con- 
fined as insane. 

From this principle it follows, that every thing which under- 
goes any change, must either be the efficient cause of that change 
in itself, or it must be changed by some other being. 

In the first case it is said to have active power, and to act in 
producing that change. In the second case it is merely passive, 
or is acted upon, and the active power is in that being only which 
produces the change. 

II. Active power. — The name of a cause and of an agent, is 
properly given to that being only, which, by its active power, 
produces some change in itself, or in some other being. The 
change, whether it be of thought, of will, or of motion, is the 
effect. Active power, therefore, is a quality in the cause, which 
enables it to produce the effect. And the exertion of that active 
power in producing the effect, is called action, agency, efficiency. 

[In order to the production of any effect, there must be in the 
cause not only power, but the exertion of that power : for power 
that is not exerted produces no effect.] 

All that is necessary to the production of any effect, is power, 
is an efficient cause to produce the effect, and the exertion of 
that power : for it is a contradiction to say, that the cause has 
power to produce the effect, and exerts that power, and yet the 
effect is not produced. The effect cannot be in his power, un- 
less all the means necessary to its production be in his power. 

It is no less a contradiction to say, that a cause has power to 
produce a certain effect, but that he cannot exert that power : 
for power which cannot be exerted is no power, and is a contra- 
diction in terms. 

To prevent mistake, it is proper to observe, that a being may 
have a power at one time which it has not at another. It may 
commonly have a power, which, at a particular time, it has not. 
Thus, a man may commonly have power to walk or to run ; but 
he has not this power when asleep, or when he is confined by 
superior force. In common language, he may be said to have a 
power which he cannot then exert. But this popular expression 
means only that he commonly has this power, and will have it 
when the cause is removed which at present deprives him of it : 
for when we speak strictly and philosophically, it is a contradic- 
tion to say that he has this power, at that moment when he is 
deprived of it. 

[These, I think, are necessary consequences from the prin- 
ciple first mentioned, that every change which happens in nature 
must have an efficient cause which had power to produce it.] 

III. [Another principle, which appears very early in the mind 
of man, is, That ive are efficient causes in our deliberate and 
voluntary actions.] 



OF THE WORDS CAUSE AND EFFECT, ETC. gfjg 

We are conscious of making an exertion, sometimes with dif- 
ficulty, in order to produce certain effects. An exertion made 
deliberately and voluntarily, in order to produce an effect, im- 
plies a conviction that the effect is in our power. No man can 
deliberately attempt what he does not believe to be in his power. 
The language of all mankind, and their ordinary conduct in life, 
demonstrate, that they have a conviction of some active power in 
themselves to produce certain motions in their own and in other 
bodies, and to regulate and direct their own thoughts. This con- 
viction we have so early in life, that we have no remembrance 
when, or in what way, we acquired it. 

That such a conviction is at first the necessary result of our 
constitution, and that it can never be entirely obliterated, is, I 
think, acknowledged by one of the most zealous defenders of 
necessity. — " Free Discussion," &c. p. 298. " Such are the influ- 
ences to which all mankind, without distinction, are exposed, that 
they necessarily refer actions (I mean refer them ultimately) first 
of all to themselves and others ; and it is a long time before they 
begin to consider themselves and others as instruments in the hand 
of a superior agent. Consequently, the associations which refer 
actions to themselves, get so confirmed, that they are never en- 
tirely obliterated ; and therefore the common language, and the 
common feelings of mankind, will be adapted to the first, the 
limited and imperfect, or rather erroneous, view of things." 

It is very probable that the very conception or idea of active 
power, and of efficient causes, is derived from our voluntary 
exertions in producing effects ; and that, if we were not con- 
scious of such exertions, we should have no conception at all of 
a cause, or of active power, and consequently no conviction of 
the necessity of a cause of every change which we observe in 
nature. 

IV. [It is certain that we can conceive no kind of active power 
but what is similar or analogous to that which we attribute to our- 
selves ; that is, a power which is exerted by will and with under- 
standing. Our notion, even of Almighty power, is derived 
from the notion of human power, by removing from the former 
those imperfections and limitations to which the latter is sub- 
jected.] 

It may be difficult to explain the origin of our conceptions and 
belief concerning efficient causes and active power. [The com- 
mon theory, that all our ideas are ideas of sensation or reflection, 
and that all our belief is a perception of the agreement or the 
disagreement of those ideas, appears to be repugnant, both to 
the idea of an efficient cause, and to the belief of its necessity.] 

An attachment to that theory has led some philosophers to 
deny that we have any conception of an efficient cause, or of 
active power, because efficiency and active power are not ideas, 



£54 ESSAY IV. CHAP. n. 

either of sensation or reflection. They maintain, therefore, that 
a cause is only something prior to the effect, and constantly con- 
joined with it. This is Mr. Hume's notion of a cause, and seems 
to be adopted by Dr. Priestley, who says, " That a cause cannot 
be defined to be any thing, but such previous circumstances as 
are constantly followed by a certain effect, the constancy of the 
result making us conclude, that there must be a sufficient reason, 
in the nature of the things, why it should be produced in those 
circumstances." 

But theory ought to stoop to fact, and not fact to theory. 
Every man who understands the language knows, that neither 
priority, nor constant conjunction, nor both taken together, 
imply efficiency. Every man, free from prejudice, must assent 
to what Cicero has said : " Itaque non sic causa intelligi debet, 
ut quod cuique antecedat, id et causa sit, sed quod cuique 
efficienter antecedit."' — " That which precedes any thing is 
not to be considered as its cause, but that which precedes it 
efficiently" 

[The very dispute, whether we have the conception of an 
efficient cause, shows that we have. For though men may dis- 
pute about things which have no existence, they cannot dispute 
about things of which they have no conception.] 

V. Recapitulation. — What has been said in this chapter is 
intended to show, That the conception of causes, of action and 
of active power, in the strict and proper sense of these words, is 
found in the minds of all men very early, even in the daw r n of 
their rational life. It is therefore probable, that, in all lan- 
guages, the words by which these conceptions were expressed 
were at first distinct and unambiguous ; yet it is certain, that, 
among the most enlightened nations, these words are applied to 
so many things of different natures, and used in so vague a man- 
ner, that it is very difficult to reason about them distinctly. 

This phenomenon, at first view, seems very unaccountable. 
But a little reflection may satisfy us, that it is a natural conse- 
quence of the slow and gradual progress of human knowledge. 

And since the ambiguity of these words has so great influence 
upon our reasoning about moral liberty, and furnishes the 
strongest objections against it, it is not foreign to our subject to 
show whence it arises. [When we know the causes that have 
produced this ambiguity, we shall be less in danger of being mis- 
led by it, and the proper and strict meaning of the words will 
more evidently appear.] 



255 



CHAPTER III. 

CAUSES OF THE AMBIGUITY OF THOSE WORDS. 

I. Premature conclusion as to objects indued with motion. — 
When we turn our attention to external objects, and begin to 
exercise our rational faculties about them, we find, that there 
are some motions and changes in them, which we have power 
to produce, and that they have many which must have some 
other cause. Either the objects must have life and active power, 
as we have, or they must be moved or changed by something 
that has life and active power, as external objects are moved 
by us. 

[Our first thoughts seem to be, That the objects in which we 
perceive such motion have understanding and active power as we 
have.] 

"Savages," says the Abbe Raynal, "wherever they see motion 
which they cannot account for, there they suppose a soul."* 

All men may be considered as savages in this respect, until 
they are capable of instruction, and of using their faculties in a 
more perfect manner than savages do. 

The rational conversations of birds and beasts in iEsop's Fables 
do not shock the belief of children. To them they have that 
probability which we require in an epic poem. Poets give us a 
great deal of pleasure, by clothing every object with intellectual 
and moral attributes in metaphor and in other figures. May not 
the pleasure which we take in this poetical language, arise, in 
part, from its correspondence with our earliest sentiments ? 

II. However this may be, the [Abbe Raynal's observation is 
sufficiently confirmed, both from fact, and from the structure of 
all languages.] 

Rude nations do really believe sun, moon and stars, earth, sea 
and air, fountains and lakes, to have understanding and active 
power. To pay homage to them, and implore their favour, is a 
kind of idolatry natural to savages. 

All languages carry in their structure the marks of their being 
formed when this belief prevailed. [The distinction of verbs 
and participles into active and passive, which is found in all lan- 
guages, must have been originally intended to distinguish what 
is really active from what is merely passive ; and, in all lan- 
guages, we find active verbs applied to those objects, in which, 
according to the Abbe Raynal's observation, savages suppose a 
soul J] 

Thus we say the sun rises and sets, and comes to the meridian, 
the moon changes, the sea ebbs and flows, the winds blow. 

* Vide sect. vii. chap. 5, Essay III. 



256 ESSAY IV chap. in. 

Languages were formed by men who believed these objects to 
have life and active power in themselves. It was therefore pro- 
per and natural to express their motions and changes by active 
verbs. 

III. [There is no surer way of tracing the sentiments of nations 
before they have records than by the structure of their language, 
which, notwithstanding the changes produced in it by time, will 
always retain some signatures of the thoughts of those by whom 
it was invented. When we find the same sentiments indicated 
in the structure of all languages, those sentiments must have 
been common to the human species when languages were 
invented.] 

When a few of superior intellectual abilities find leisure for 
speculation, they begin to philosophize, and soon discover, that 
many of those objects which, at first, they believed to be intel- 
ligent and active, are really lifeless and passive. This is a very 
important discovery. It elevates the mind, emancipates from 
many vulgar superstitions, and invites to farther discoveries of 
the same kind. 

As philosophy advances, life and activity in natural objects 
retire, and leave them dead and inactive. Instead of moving 
voluntarily, we find them to be moved necessarily ; instead of 
acting, we find them to be acted upon ; and nature appears as 
one great machine, where one wheel is turned by another, that 
by a third ; and how far this necessary succession may reach, the 
philosopher does not know. 

IV. [ The weakness of human reason makes men prone, when 
they leave one extreme, to rush into the opposite;* and thus philo- 
sophy, even in its infancy, may lead men from idolatry and poly- 
theism into atheism, and from ascribing active power to inani- 
mate beings, to conclude all things to be carried on by neces- 

Whatever origin we ascribe to the doctrines of atheism and of 
fatal necessity, it is certain, that both may be traced almost as 
far back as philosophy ; and both appear to be the opposites of 
the earliest sentiments of men. 

It must have been by the observation and reasoning of the 
speculative few, that those objects were discovered to be inani- 
mate and inactive, to which the many ascribed life and activity. 
But while the few are convinced of this, they must speak the 
language of the many in order to be understood. tf^T So we 
see, that when the Ptolemaic system of astronomy, which agrees 
with vulgar prejudice and with vulgar language, has been uni- 
versally rejected by philosophers, they continue to use the phrase- 
ology that is grounded upon it, not only in speaking to the vul- 
gar, but in speaking to one another. They say, The sun rises 
* As, from dogmatism to scepticism. 



OF THE AMBIGUITY OF THOSE WORDS. 257 

and sets, and moves annually through all the signs of the zodiac, 
while they believe that he never leaves his place. 

[In like manner, those active verbs and participles, which 
were applied to the inanimate objects of nature, when they were 
believed to be really active, continue to be applied to them after 
they are discovered to be passive, .] 

V. [ The forms of language, once established by custom, are 
not so easily changed as the notions on which they were originally 
founded. While the sounds remain, their signification is gra- 
dually enlarged or altered.] This is sometimes found, even in 
those sciences in which the signification of words is the most 
accurate and precise. Thus, in arithmetic, the word number, 
among the ancients, always signified so many units, and it would 
have been absurd to apply it either to unity or to any part of an 
unit ; but now we call unity, or any part of unity, a number. 
With them, multiplication always increased a number, and divi- 
sion diminished it ; but we speak of multiplying by a fraction, 
which diminishes, and of dividing by a fraction, which increases 
the number. We speak of dividing or multiplying by unity, 
which neither diminishes nor increases a number. These forms 
of expression, in the ancient language, would have been absurd. 

VI. A chief cause of the imperfection of language. — [By such 
changes, in the meaning of words, @gr the language of every civil- 
ized nation resembles old furniture new modelled, in which many 
things are put to uses for which they were not originally intended, 
and for which they are not perfectly fitted.] 

This is one great cause of the imperfection of language, and it 
appears very remarkably in those verbs and participles which are 
active in their form, but are frequently used so as to have 
nothing active in their signification. 

Hence we are authorised by custom to ascribe action and 
active power to things which we believe to be passive. The 
proper and original signification of every word, which at first 
signified action and causation, is buried and lost under that vague 
meaning which custom has affixed to it. 

That there is a real distinction, and perfect opposition, between 
acting and being acted upon, every man may be satisfied who is 
capable of reflection. And that this distinction is perceived by 
all men as soon as they begin to reason, appears by the distinc- 
tion between active and passive verbs, which is original in all 
languages, though, from the causes that have been mentioned, 
they come to be confounded in the progress of human im- 
provement. 

VII. ^Another way in which philosophy has contributed very 
much to the ambiguity of the words under our consideration, de- 
serves to be mentioned.] 

The first step into natural philosophy, and what hath com- 

s 



£58 ESSAY IV. CHAP. III. 

monly been considered as its ultimate end, is the investigation of 
the causes of the phenomena of nature ; that is, the causes of 
those appearances in nature which are not the effects of human 
power. " Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas," is the sen- 
timent of every mind that has a turn to speculation. 

The knowledge of the causes of things promises no less the 
enlargement of human power than the gratification of human 
curiosity; and therefore, among the enlightened part of man- 
kind, this knowledge has been pursued in all ages with an avidity 
proportioned to its importance. 

In nothing does the difference between the intellectual powers 
of man and those of brutes appear more conspicuous than in this. 
For in them we perceive no desire to investigate the causes of 
things, nor indeed any^sign that they have the proper notion of 
a cause. 

[There is reason, however, to apprehend, that, in this investi- 
gation, men have wandered much in the dark, and that their 
success has by no means been equal to their desire and expec- 
tation.] 

We easily discover an established order and connexion in the 
phenomena of nature. We learn, in many cases, from what has 
happened, to know what will happen. The discoveries of this 
kind, made by common observation, are many, and are the foun- 
dation of common prudence in the conduct of life. Philosophers, 
by more accurate observation and experiment, have made many 
more ; by which arts are improved, and human power, as well as 
human knowledge, is enlarged. 

But, as to the real causes of the phenomena of nature, how 
little do we know ! [all our knowledge of things external, must 
be grounded upon the information of our senses ; but causation 
and active power are not objects of sense ; nor is that always the 
cause of a phenomenon which is prior to it, and constantly con- 
joined with it; otherwise night would be the cause of day, and 
day the cause of the following night.] 

It is to this day problematical, whether all the phenomena of 
the material system be produced by the immediate operation of 
the First Cause, according to the laws which his w T isdom deter- 
mined, or whether subordinate causes are employed by him in 
the operations of nature ; and, if they be, what their nature, 
their number, and their different offices are ? And whether, in 
all cases, they act by commission, or, in some, according to their 
discretion ? 

When we are so much in the dark with regard to the real 
causes of the phenomena of nature, and have a strong desire to 
know them, it is not strange, that ingenious men should form 
numberless conjectures and theories, by which the soul, hunger- 
ing for knowledge, is fed with chaff instead of wheat. 



OF THE AMBIGUITY OF THOSE WORDS. ^59 

VII T. Absurd theories of philosophers to explain causation. — 
In a very ancient system, love and strife were made the causes of 
things. In the Pythagorean and Platonic system, matter, ideas, 
and an intelligent mind. By Aristotle, matter, form, and priva- 
tion. Des Cartes thought, that matter, and a certain quantity 
of motion given at first by the Almighty, are sufficient to account 
for all the phenomena of the natural world. Leibnitz, that the 
universe is made up of monades, active and percipient, which, by 
their active power received at first, produce all the changes they 
undergo. 

While men thus wandered in the dark in search of causes, 
unwilling to confess their disappointment, they vainly conceived 
every thing they stumbled upon to be a cause, and the proper 
notion of a cause is lost, by giving the name to numberless things 
which neither are nor can be causes. 

IX. Not mischievous. — [This confusion of various things under 
the name of causes, is the more easily tolerated, because however 
hurtful it may be to sound philosophy, it has little influence upon 
the concerns of life.] A constant antecedent, or concomitant, of 
the phenomenon whose cause is sought, may answer the purpose 
of the inquirer, as well as if the real cause were known. @§ir Thus 
a sailor desires to know the cause of the tides, that he may know 
when to expect high water : he is told that it is high water when 
the moon is so many hours past the meridian : and now he thinks 
he knows the cause of the tides. What he takes for the cause 
answers his purpose, and his mistake does him no harm. 

Those philosophers seem to have had the justest views of nature, 
as well as of the weakness of human understanding, who, giving 
up the pretence of discovering the causes of the operations of 
nature, have applied themselves to discover, by observation and 
experiment, the rules, or laws of nature according to which the 
phenomena of nature are produced. 

In compliance with custom, or perhaps, to gratify the avidity 
of knowing the causes of things, we call the laws of nature causes 
and active powers. So we speak of the powers of gravitation, of 
magnetism, of electricity. 

We call them causes of many of the phenomena of nature ; 
and such they are esteemed by the ignorant, and by the half 
learned. 

[But those of juster discernment see, that laws of nature are 
not agents. They are not endowed with active power, and there- 
fore cannot be causes in the proper sense. They are only the 
rules according to which the unknown cause acts.] 

Thus it appears, that our natural desire to know the causes of 
the phenomena of nature, our inability to discover them, and 
the vain theories of philosophers employed in this search, have 
made the word cause and the related words so ambiguous, and to 

s 2 



260 ESSAY IV. CHAP. III. 

signify so many things of different natures, that they have in a 
manner lost their proper and original meaning, and yet we have 
no other words to express it. 

Every thing joined with the effect, and prior to it, is called its 
cause. An instrument, an occasion, a reason, a motive, an end, 
are called causes. And the related words effect, agent, power, 
are extended in the same vague manner. 

[Were it not that the terms cause and agent have lost their 
proper meaning in the crowd of meanings that have been given 
them, we should immediately perceive a contradiction in the 
terms necessary cause and necessary agent.~\ And although the 
loose meaning of those words is authorised by custom, the ar- 
biter of language, and therefore cannot be censured, perhaps 
cannot always be avoided, yet we ought to be upon our guard, 
that we be not misled by it to conceive things to be the same 
which are essentially different. 

To say that man is a free agent, is no more than to say that, 
in some instances, he is truly an agent and a cause, and is not 
merely acted upon as a passive instrument. On the contrary, to 
say that he acts from necessity, is to say that he does not act at 
all, that he is no agent, and that, for any thing we know, there is 
only one agent in the universe, who does every thing that is done, 
whether it be good or ill. 

If this necessity be attributed even to the Deity, the conse- 
quence must be, that there neither is nor can be a cause at all ; 
that nothing acts, but every thing is acted upon ; nothing moves, 
but every thing is moved ; all is passion without action ; all 
instrument without an agent ; and that every thing that is, or 
was, or shall be, has that necessary existence in its season which 
we commonly consider as the prerogative of the First Cause. 

This I take to be the genuine and the most tenable system of 
necessity. It was the system of Spinoza, though he was not the 
first that advanced it ; for it is very ancient. And if this system 
be true, our. reasoning to prove the existence of a first cause of 
every thing that begins to exist, must be given up as fallacious. 

X. Proof of a Deity on these principles presents no difficulty. 
■ — If it be evident to the human understanding, as I take it to be, 
that what begins to exist must have an efficient cause, which had 
power to give or not to give it existence ; and if it be true, that 
effects well and wisely fitted for the best purposes, demonstrate 
intelligence, wisdom, and goodness, in the efficient cause, as well 
as power, the proof of a Deity from these principles is very easy 
and obvious to all men that can reason. 

If, on the other hand, our belief that every thing that begins 
to exist has a cause, be got only by experience ; and if, as Mr. 
Hume maintains, the only notion of a cause be something prior 
to the effect, which experience has shown to be constantly con- 



OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES. 261 

joined with such an effect, I see not how, from these principles, 
it is possible to prove the existence of an intelligent cause of the 
universe. 

Mr. Hume seems to me to reason justly from his definition of 
a cause, when, in the person of an Epicurean, he maintains, that 
with regard to a cause of the universe, we can conclude nothing ; 
because it is a singular effect. We have no experience that such 
effects are always conjoined with such a cause. Nay, the cause 
which we assign to this effect, is a cause which no man hath seen, 
nor can see, and therefore experience cannot inform us that it 
has ever been conjoined with any effect. He seems to me to 
reason justly from his definition of a cause, when he maintains, 
that any thing may be the cause of any thing ; since priority and 
constant conjunction is all that can be conceived in the notion of 
a cause. 

Another zealous defender of the doctrine of necessity says, 
that " a cause cannot be denned to be any thing but such pre- 
vious circumstances as are constantly followed by a certain effect, 
the constancy of the result making us conclude, that there must 
be a sufficient reason, in the nature of things, why it should be 
produced in those circumstances." 

This seems to me to be Mr. Hume's definition of a cause in 
other words, and neither more nor less ; but I am far from think- 
ing that the author of it will admit the consequences which Mr. 
Hume draws from it, however necessary they may appear to 
others. 



CHAPTEK IV. 

OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES. 



I. The modern advocates for the doctrine of necessity lay the 
stress of their cause upon the influence of motives. 

" Every deliberate action," they say, " must have a motive. 
When there is no motive on the other side, this motive must 
determine the agent : when there are contrary motives, the 
strongest must prevail : we reason from men's motives to their 
actions, as we do from other causes to their effects : if man be a 
free agent, and be not governed by motives, all his actions must 
be mere caprice, rewards and punishments can have no effect, 
and such a being must be absolutely ungovernable." 

In order therefore to understand distinctly, in what sense we 
ascribe moral liberty to man, it is necessary to understand what 
influence we allow to motives. To prevent misunderstanding, 
which has been very common upon this point, I offer the follow- 
ing observations : 



ESSAY IV. CHAP. IV. 

I. I grant that all rational beings are influenced, and ought to 
he influenced by motives. But the influence of motives is of a 
very different nature from that of efficient causes. They are 
neither causes nor agents. They suppose an efficient cause, and 
can do nothing without it. We cannot, without absurdity, sup- 
pose a motive, either to act, or to be acted upon ; it is equally 
incapable of action and of passion ; because it is not a thing that 
exists, but a thing that is conceived ; it is what the schoolmen 
called an ens rationis. Motives, therefore, may influence to action, 
but they do not act. They may be compared to advice, or ex- 
hortation, which leaves a man still at liberty. For in vain is 

; advice given when there is not a power either to do, or to for- 
bear, what it recommends. In like manner, motives suppose 
liberty in the agent, otherwise they have no influence at all. 

It is a law of nature, with respect to matter, that every motion 
and change of motion is proportional to the force impressed, and 
in the direction of that force. The scheme of necessity supposes 
a similar law to obtain in all the actions of intelligent beings ; 
which, with little alteration, may be expressed thus : every action, 
or change of action, in an intelligent being, is proportional to 
the force of motives impressed, and in the direction of that 
force. 

The law of nature respecting matter is grounded upon this 
principle — that matter is an inert, inactive substance, which does 
not act, but is acted upon ; and the law of necessity must be 
grounded upon the supposition, that an intelligent being is an 
inert, inactive substance, which does not act, but is acted upon. 

II. [2. Rational beings, in proportion as they are wise and 
good, will act according to the best motives; and every rational 
being, who does otherwise, abuses his liberty.] The most per- 
fect being, in every thing where there is a right and a wrong, a 
better and a worse, always infallibly acts according to the best 
motives. This indeed is little else than an identical proposition ; 
for it is a contradiction to say, that a perfect being does what 
is wrong or unreasonable. But to say, that he does not act 
freely, because he always does what is best, is to say, that the 
proper use of liberty destroys liberty, and that liberty consists 
only in its abuse. 

The moral perfection of the Deity consists, not in having no 
power to do ill, otherwise, as Dr. Clarke justly observes, there 
would be no ground to thank him for his goodness to us any 
more than for his eternity or immensity ; but his moral perfection 
consists in this, that, when he has power to do every thing, a 

i power which cannot be resisted, he exerts that power only in 
doing what is wisest and best. To be subject to necessity is to 
have no power at all; for power and necessity are opposite*. 
Wc grant, therefore, that motives have influence, similar to that 



OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES. ggg 

of advice or persuasion ; but this influence is perfectly consistent 
with liberty, and indeed supposes liberty. 

III. [3. Whether every deliberate action must have a motive, 
depends on the meaning we put upon the word deliberate^ If, 
by a deliberate action, we mean an action wherein motives are 
weighed, which seems to be the original meaning of the word, 
surely there must be motives, and contrary motives, otherwise 
they could not be weighed. But if a deliberate action means 
only, as it commonly does, an action done by a cool and calm 
determination of the mind, with forethought and will, I believe 
there are innumerable such actions done without a motive. 

This must be appealed to every man's consciousness. I do 
many trifling actions every day, in which, upon the most careful 
reflection, I am conscious of no motive ; and to say that I may 
be influenced by a motive of which I am not conscious, is, in the 
first place, an arbitrary supposition without any evidence, and 
then, it is to say, that I may be convinced by an argument which 
never entered into my thought. 

Cases frequently occur, in which an end that is of some import- 
ance may be answered equally well by any one of several different 
means. In such cases, a man who intends the end finds not the 
least difficulty in taking one of these means, though he be 
firmly persuaded, that it has no title to be preferred to any of 
the others. 

To say that this is a case that cannot happen, is to contradict 
the experience of mankind ; for surely igF a man who has occa- 
sion to lay out a shilling, or a guinea, may have two hundred that 
are of equal value, both to the giver and to the receiver, any 
one of which will answer his purpose equally well. To say, 
that, if such a case should happen, the man could not execute 
his purpose, is still more ridiculous, though it have the autho- 
rity of some of the schoolmen, who determined, that the ass, 
between two equal bundles of hay, would stand still till it died 
of hunger. 

IV. [If a man could not act without a motive, he would have no 
power at all; for motives are not in our power ; and he that has 
not power over a necessary mean, has not power over the end.] 

That an action done without any motive can neither have 
merit nor demerit, is much insisted on by the writers for neces- 
sity, and triumphantly, as if it were the very hinge of the con- 
troversy. I grant it to be a self-evident proposition, and I know 
no author that ever denied it. 

How insignificant soever, in moral estimation, the actions may 
be which are done without any motive, they are of moment in 
the question concerning moral liberty. For, if there ever was 
any action of this kind, motives are not the sole causes of human 
actions. And if we have the power of acting without a motive, 



2g4 ESSAY IV. CHAP. IV. 

that power, joined to a weaker motive, may counterbalance a 
stronger. 

V. [4. It can never be proved, that when there is a motive on 
one side only, that motive must determine the action.] 

According to the laws of reasoning, the proof is incumbent on 
those who hold the affirmative ; and I have never seen a shadow 
of argument which does not take for granted the thing in ques- 
Y tion, to wit, that motives are the sole causes of actions ._) 

Is there no such thing as wilfulness, caprice, or obstinacy 
among mankind? If there be not, it is wonderful that they 
should have names in all languages. If there be such things, a 
single motive, or even many motives, may be resisted, 

VI. Motives of the same kind may be compared. — [5. When it 
is said, that of contrary motives the strongest always prevails, 
this can neither be affirmed nor denied with understanding, until 
we know distinctly what is meant by the strongest motive.] 

I do not find, that those who have advanced this as a self- 
evident axiom, have ever attempted to explain what they mean 
by the strongest motive, or have given any rule by which we may 
judge which of two motives is the strongest. 

How shall we know whether the strongest motive always pre- 
vails, if we know not which is strongest ? There must be some 
test by which their strength is to be tried, some balance in which 
they may be weighed, otherwise, to say that the strongest motive 
always prevails, is to speak without any meaning. We must 
therefore search for this test or balance, since they who have laid 
so much stress upon this axiom, have left us wholly in the dark 
as to its meaning. I grant, that when the contrary motives are 
of the same kind, and differ only in quantity, it may be easy to 
say which is the strongest. Thus a bribe of a thousand pounds 
is a stronger motive than a bribe of a hundred pounds. But 
when the motives are of different kinds, as money and fame, 
duty and worldly interest, health and strength, riches and honour, 
by what rule shall w r e judge which is the strongest motive ? 

Either we measure the strength of motives, merely by their 
prevalence, or by some other standard distinct from their preva- 
lence. 

If we measure their strength merely by their prevalence, and 
by the strongest motive mean only the motive that prevails, it 
will be true indeed that the strongest motive prevails ; but the 
proposition will be identical, and mean no more than that the 
strongest motive is the strongest motive. From this surely no 
conclusion can be drawn. 

[If it should be said, that by the strength of a motive is not 
meant its prevalence, but the cause of its prevalence ; that we 
measure the cause by the effect, and from the superiority of the 
effect conclude the superiority of the cause, as we conclude that 



OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES. 265 

to be the heaviest weight which bears clown the scale : I answer, 
that, according to this explication of the axiom, it takes for 
granted that motives are the causes, and the sole causes of actions.] 
Nothing is left to the agent, but to be acted upon by the mo- 
tives, as the balance is by the weights. The axiom supposes, 
that the agent does not act, but is acted upon ; and, from this 
supposition, it is concluded that he does not act. This is to 
reason in a circle, or rather it is not reasoning but begging the 
question. 

Bgp Contrary motives may very properly be compared to advo- 
cates pleading the opposite sides of a cause at the bar. It would 
be very weak reasoning to say, that such an advocate is the most 
powerful pleader, because sentence was given on his side. The 
sentence is in the power of the judge, not of the advocate. It 
is equally weak reasoning, in proof of necessity, to say, such a 
motive prevailed, therefore it is the strongest ; since the defend- 
ers of liberty maintain that the determination was made by the 
man, and not by the motive. 

VII. [We are therefore brought to this issue, that unless 
some measure of the strength of motives can be found distinct 
from their prevalence, it cannot be determined, whether the 
strongest motive always prevails or not. If such a measure can 
be found and applied, we may be able to judge of the truth of 
this maxim, but not otherwise.] 

Every thing that can be called a motive is addressed either to 
the animal or to the rational part of our nature. Motives of the 
former kind are common to us with the brutes ; those of the 
latter are peculiar to rational beings. We shall beg leave, for 
distinction's sake, to call the former, animal motives, and the 
latter, rational. 

Hunger is a motive in a dog to eat ; so is it in a man. Ac- 
cording to the strength of the appetite, it gives a stronger or a 
weaker impulse to eat. And the same thing may be said of 
every other appetite and passion. Such animal motives give an 
impulse to the agent, to which he yields with ease ; and, if the 
impulse be strong, it cannot be resisted without an effort which 
requires a greater or a less degree of self-command. Such motives 
I are not addressed to the rational powers. Their influence is im- 
mediately upon the will. We feel their influence, and judge of 
their strength, by the conscious effort which is necessary to resist 
them. 

VIII. Animal test of the strength of motives. — When a man 
is acted upon by contrary motives of this kind, he finds it easy 
to yield to the strongest. They are like two forces pushing him 
in contrary directions. To yield to the strongest, he needs only 
to be passive. By exerting his own force, he may resist ; but 
this requires an effort of which he is conscious. [The strength 



ESSAY IV. CHAP. IV. 

of motives of this kind is perceived, not by our judgment, but 
by our feeling ; and that is the strongest of contrary motives to 
which he can yield with ease, or which it requires an effort of 
self-command to resist ; and this we may call the animal test of 
the strength of motives.] 

If it be asked, whether, in motives of this kind, the strongest 
always prevails ? I answer, That in brute-animals I believe it does. 
They do not appear to have any self-command ; an appetite or 
passion in them is overcome only by a stronger contrary one. 
On this account, they are not accountable for their actions, nor 
can they be the subjects of law. 

But in men who are able to exercise their rational powers, 
and have any degree of self-command, the strongest animal mo- 
tive does not always prevail. (The flesh does not always prevail 
against the spirit, though too often it does.^) And if men were 
necessarily determined by the strongest animal motive, they 
could no more be accountable, or capable of being governed by 
law, than brutes are. 

IX. Rational motives defined. — Let us next consider rational 
motives, to which the name of motive is more commonly and 
more properly given. Their influence is upon the judgment, 
by convincing us that such an action ought to be done, that it is 
our duty, or conducive to our real good, or to some end which 
we have determined to pursue. 

They do not give a blind impulse to the will as animal motives 
do. They convince, but they do not impel, unless, as may 
often happen, they excite some passion of hope, or fear, or de- 
sire. Such passions may be excited by conviction, and may 
operate in its aid as other animal motives do. But there may be 
conviction without passion; and [the conviction of what we 
ought to do, in order to some end which we have judged fit to be 
pursued, is what I call a rational motive.'] 

Brutes, I think, cannot be influenced by such motives. They 
have not the conception of ought and ought not. Children ac- 
quire these conceptions as their rational powers advance ; and 
they are found in all of ripe age, who have the human faculties. 

X. Rational test of the strength of motives. — [If there be any 
competition between rational motives, it is evident that the 
strongest, in the eye of reason, is that which it is most our duty 
and our real happiness to follow.] Our duty and our real hap- 
piness are ends which are inseparable ; and they are the ends 
which every man, endowed with reason, is conscious he ought 
to pursue in preference to all others. [This we may call the 
rational test of the strength of motives. A motive winch is the 
strongest, according to the animal test, may be, and very often 
is, the weakest according to the rational.'] 

[The grand and the important competition of contrary motives 



OF THE INFLUENCE OF MOTIVES, 267 

is between the animal, on the one hand, and the rational on the 
other. This is the conflict between the flesh and the spirit, upon 
the event of which the character of men depends.] 

If it be asked, which of these is the strongest motive ? The 
answer is, That the first is commonly strongest, when they are 
tried by the animal test. If they were not so, human life would 
be no state of trial. It would not be a warfare, nor would vir- 
tue require any effort or self-command. No man would have 
any temptation to do wrong. But when we try the contrary 
motives by the rational test, it is evident that the rational mo- 
tive is always the strongest. 

And now, I think, it appears that the strongest motive, ac- 
cording to either of the tests I have mentioned, does not always 



[In every wise and virtuous action, the motive that prevails is 
the strongest, according to the rational test, but commonly the 
weakest according to the animal. In every foolish, and in every 
vicious action, the motive that prevails is commonly the strong- 
est according to the animal test, but always the weakest according 
to the rational.] 

XI. [6. It is true, that we reason from men's motives to their 
actions, and in many cases with great probability, but never with 
absolute certainty. And to infer from this, that men are neces- 
sarily determined by motives, is very weak reasoning.] 

For, let us suppose, for a moment, that men have moral liberty, 

I would ask, what use may they be expected to make of this 

liberty ? It may surely be expected that, of the various actions 

within the sphere of their power, they will choose what pleases 

them most for the present, or what appears to be most for their 

(real, though distant good. When there is a competition be- 

j tween these motives, the foolish will prefer present gratification ; 

vthe wise, the greater and more distant good. 

Now, is not this the very way in which we see men act ? Is 
it not from the presumption that they act in this way, that we 
reason from their motives to their actions ? Surely it is. Is it 
not weak reasoning, therefore, to argue, that men have not li- 
berty, because they act in that very way in which they would 
act if they had liberty ? It would surely be more like reasoning, 
to draw the contrary conclusion from the same premises. 

XII. [7. Nor is it better reasoning to conclude, that if men 
j are not necessarily determined by motives, all their actions must 

be capricious.] 

To resist the strongest animal motives when duty requires, is 
so far from being capricious, that it is, in the highest degree, 
wise and virtuous. And we hope this is often done by good 
men. \ 

To act against rational motives, must always be foolish, vicious, 



£gg ESSAVIV. CHAP. IV. 

or capricious. And it cannot be denied that there are too 
many such actions done. But is it reasonable to conclude, that 
because liberty may be abused by the foolish and the vicious, 
therefore it can never be put to its proper use, which is to act 
wisely and virtuously ? 

XIII. [8. It is equally unreasonable to conclude, that if men 
are not necessarily determined by motives, rewards and punishments 
would have no effect. With wise men they will have their due 
effect ; but not always with the foolish and the vicious.] 

Let us consider what effect rewards and punishments do really, 
and in fact, produce, and what may be inferred from that 
effect, upon each of the opposite systems of liberty and of ne- 
cessity. 

I take it for granted that, in fact, the best and wisest laws, 
both human and divine, are often transgressed, notwithstanding 
the rewards and punishments that are annexed to them. If any 
man should deny this fact, I know not how to reason with him. 

From this fact, it may be inferred with certainty, upon the 
supposition of necessity, that, in every instance of transgression, 
the motive of reward or punishment was not of sufficient strength 
to produce obedience to the law. This implies a fault in the 
lawgiver ; but there can be no fault in the transgressor who acts 
mechanically by the force of motives. §gp° We might as well 
impute a fault to the balance, when it does not raise a weight 
of two pounds by the force of one pound. 

XIV. The supposition of necessity precludes rewards and pu- 
nishments — liberty gives efficacy to both. — [Upon the supposition 
of necessity, there can be neither reward nor punishment, in the 
proper sense, as those words imply good and ill desert.] Reward 
and punishment are only ,tools employed to produce a mechani- 
cal effect. When the effect is not produced, the tool must be 
unfit or wrong applied. 

Upon the supposition of liberty, rewards and punishments will 
have a proper effect upon the wise and the good ; but not so upon 
the foolish and the vicious, when opposed by their animal passions 
or bad habits ; and this is just what we see to be the fact. Upon 
this supposition, the transgression of the law implies no defect in 
the law, no fault in the lawgiver ; the fault is solely in the trans- 
gressor. And it is upon this supposition only that there can be 
either reward or punishment, in the proper sense of the words, 
because it is only on this supposition that there can be good or ill 
desert. \ 



269 



CHAPTER V. 

LIBERTY CONSISTENT WITH GOVERNMENT. 

I. Mechanical and moral government. — When it is said that 
liberty would make us absolutely ungovernable by God or man ; 
to understand the strength of this conclusion, it is necessary to 
know distinctly what is meant by government. There are two 
kinds of government^ very different in their nature. The one 
we may, for distinction's sake, call mechanical government, the 
other moral. The first is the government of beings which have 
no active power, but are merely passive and acted upon ; the ' 
second, of intelligent and active beings. 

$ST An instance of mechanical government may be, That of a 
master or commander of a ship at sea. Supposing her skilfully 
built, and furnished with every thing proper for the destined 
voyage, to govern her properly for this purpose requires much 
art and attention : and, as every art has its rules, or laws, so has 
this. But by whom are those laws to be obeyed, or those rules 
observed ? not by the ship, surely, for she is an inactive being, 
but by the governor. A sailor may say that she does not obey 
the rudder ; and he has a distinct meaning when he says so, and 
is perfectly understood. But he means not obedience in the 
proper, but in a metaphorical sense : [for, in the proper sense, 
the ship can no more obey the rudder, than she can give a com- 
mand. Every motion, both of the ship and rudder, is exactly 
proportioned to the force impressed, and in the direction of that 
force. The ship never disobeys the laws of motion, even in 
the metaphorical sense ; and they are the only laws she can be 
subject to.] 

The sailor, perhaps, curses her for not obeying the rudder ; 
but this is not the voice of reason, but of passion, like that of 
the losing gamester, when he curses the dice. The ship is as 
innocent as the dice. 

Whatever may happen during the voyage, whatever may be its 
issue, the ship, in the eye of reason, is neither an object of 
approbation nor of blame ; because she does not act, but is 
acted upon. If the material, in any part, be faulty ; Who put 
it to that use? If the form ; Who made it? If the rules of 
navigation were not observed; Who transgressed them? If a 
storm occasioned any disaster, it was no more in the power of 
the ship than of the master. 

Another instance to illustrate the nature of mechanical 
government may be, That of the man who makes and exhibits a 
puppet-show. The puppets, in all their diverting gesticulations, 
do not move, but are moved by an impulse secretly conveyed, 



270 ESSAY IV. CHAP. V. 

which they cannot resist. If they do not play their parts pro- 
perly, the fault is only in the maker or manager of the ma- 
chinery. Too much or too little force was applied, or it was 
wrong directed. No reasonable man imputes either praise 
or blame to the puppets, but solely to their maker or their 
governor. 

If we suppose for a moment, the puppets to be endowed with 
understanding and will, but without any degree of active power, 
this will make no change in the nature of their government : for 
understanding and will, without some degree of active power, 
can produce no effect. They might, upon this supposition, be 
called intelligent machines ; but they would be machines still, 
and as much subject to the laws of motion as inanimate matter, 
and therefore incapable of any other than mechanical government. 

II. Let us next consider the nature of moral government. 
This is the government of persons who have reason and active 
power, and have laws prescribed to them for their conduct, by a 
legislator. Their obedience is obedience in the proper sense ; it 
must therefore be their own act and deed, and consequently they 
must have power to obey or to disobey. To prescribe laws to 
them which they have not power to obey, or to require a service 
beyond their power, would be tyranny and injustice in the high- 
est degree. 

"When the laws are equitable, and prescribed by just authority, 
they produce moral obligation in those that are subject to them, 
and disobedience is a crime deserving punishment. [But if the 
obedience be impossible ; if the transgression be necessary ; it 
is self-evident, that there can be no moral obligation to what is 
impossible, that there can be no crime in yielding to necessity, 
and that there can be no justice in punishing a person for what 
it was not in his power to avoid. These are first principles in 
morals, and, to every unprejudiced mind, as self-evident as the 
axioms of mathematics. The whole science of morals must 
stand or fall with them.] 

III. Having thus explained the nature both of mechanical and 
of moral government, the only kinds of government I am able to 
conceive, it is easy to see how far liberty or necessity agrees with 
either. 

On the one hand, I acknowledge that necessity agrees per- 
fectly with mechanical government. This kind of government is 
most perfect when the governor is the sole agent ; every thing 
done is the doing of the governor only. The praise of every 
thing well done is his solely ; and his is the blame if there be 
any thing ill done, because he is the sole agent. 

It is true that, in common language, praise or dispraise is 
often metaphorically given to the work ; but, in propriety, it 
belongs solely to the author. Every workman understands this 



LIBERTY CONSISTENT WITH GOVERNMENT ^\ 

perfectly, and takes to himself very justly the praise or dispraise 
of his own work. 

On the other hand, it is no less evident, that, on the supposi- 
tion of necessity in the governed, there can be no moral govern- 
ment. There can be neither wisdom nor equity in prescribing 
laws that cannot be obeyed. There can be no moral obligation 
upon beings that have no active power. There can be no crime 
in not doing what it was impossible to do ; nor can there be jus- 
tice in punishing such omission. 

[If we apply these theoretical principles to the kinds of govern- 
ment which do actually exist, whether human or divine, we 
shall find that, among men, even mechanical government is 
imperfect.'] 

Men do not make the matter they work upon. Its various 
kinds, and the qualities belonging to each kind, are the work of 
God. The laws of nature, to which it is subject, are the work 
of God. The motions of the atmosphere and of the sea, the 
heat and cold of the air, the rain and wind, which are useful 
instruments in most human operations, are not in our power. So 
that, in all the mechanical productions of men, the work is more 
to be ascribed to God than to man. 

IV. Civil government among men is a species of moral govern- 
ment, but imperfect, as its lawgivers and its judges are. [Human 
laws may be unwise or unjust ; human judges may be partial or 
unskilful. But in all equitable civil governments, the maxims of 
moral government above mentioned, are acknowledged as rules 
which ought never to be violated.] Indeed, the rules of justice 
are so evident to all men, that the most tyrannical governments 
profess to be guided by them, and endeavour to palliate what is 
contrary to them by the plea of necessity. 

That a man cannot be under an obligation to what is impossi- 
ble ; that he cannot be criminal in yielding to necessity, nor 
justly punished for what he could not avoid, are maxims admitted, 
in all criminal courts, as fundamental rules of justice. 

[In opposition to this, it has been said by some of the most 
able defenders of necessity, That human laws require no more to 
constitute a crime, but that it be voluntary ; whence it is inferred, 
that the criminality consists in the determination of the will, 
whether that determination be free or necessary.] This, I think 
indeed, is the only possible plea by which criminality can be 
made consistent with necessity ; and therefore it deserves to be 
considered. 

I acknowledge that a crime must be voluntary ; for, if it be 
not voluntary, it is no deed of the man, nor can be justly im- 
puted to him ; but it is no less necessary that the criminal 
have moral liberty. In men that are adult, and of a sound 
mind, this liberty is presumed. But in every case where it 



272 ESSAY IV. CHAP. V. 

cannot be presumed, no criminality is imputed, even to voluntary 
actions. 

This is evident from the following instances : First, The 
actions of brutes appear to be voluntary ; yet they are never con- 
ceived to be criminal, though they may be noxious. Secondly, 
Children in nonage act voluntarily, but they are not chargeable 
with crimes. Thirdly, Madmen have both understanding and 
will, but they have not moral liberty, and therefore are not 
chargeable with crimes. Fourthly, Even in men that are adult, 
and of a sound mind, a motive that is thought irresistible by any 
ordinary degree of self-command, such as the rack, or the dread 
of present death, either exculpates, or very much alleviates a 
voluntary action, which, in other circumstances, would be highly 
criminal ; whence it is evident, that if the motive were absolutely 
irresistible, the exculpation would be complete. So far is it 
from being true in itself, or agreeable to the common sense of 
mankind, that the criminality of an action depends solely upon 
its being voluntary. 

V. [ The government of brutes, so far as they are subject to man, 
is a species of mechanical government, or something very like to 
it, and has no resemblance to moral government.] As inanimate 
matter is governed by our knowledge of the qualities which God 
hath given to the various productions of nature, and our know- 
ledge of the laws of nature which he hath established ; so brute- 
animals are governed by our knowledge of the natural instincts, 
appetites, affections and passions, which God hath given them. 
By a skilful application of these springs of their actions, they 
may be trained to many habits useful to man. After all, we 
find that, from causes unknown to us, not only some species, 
but some individuals of the same species, are more tractable 
than others. 

Children under age are governed much in the same way as the 
most sagacious brutes. The opening of their intellectual and 
moral powers, which may be much aided by proper instruction 
and example, is that which makes them, by degrees, capable of 
moral government. 

Reason teaches us to ascribe to the Supreme Being a govern- 
ment of the inanimate and inactive part of his creation, ana- 
logous to that mechanical government which men exercise, but 
infinitely more perfect. This, I think, is what we call God's 
natural government of the universe. [In this part of the Divine 
government, whatever is done is God's doing. He is the sole 
cause, and the sole agent, whether he act immediately, or by 
instruments subordinate to him ; and his will is always done : 
for instruments are not causes, they are not agents, though we 
sometimes improperly call them so.] 

It is therefore no less agreeable to reason, than to the language 



LIBERTY CONSISTENT WITH GOVERNMENT. 278 

of Holy Writ, to impute to the Deity whatever is done in the 
natural world. When we say of anything, that it is the work of 
nature, this is saying that it is the work of God, and can have no 
other meaning. 

VI. [The natural world is a grand machine, contrived, made, 
and governed by the wisdom and power of the Almighty : and if 
there be in this natural world, beings that have life, intelligence, 
and will, without any degree of active power, they can only be 
subject to the same kind of mechanical government.] Their 
determinations, whether we call them good or ill, must be the 
actions of the Supreme Being, as much as the productions of 
the earth : for, life, intelligence, and will, without active power, 
can do nothing, and therefore nothing can justly be imputed 
to it. 

This grand machine of the natural world, displays the power 
and wisdom of the artificer. But in it, there can be no display 
of moral attributes, which have a relation to moral conduct in 
his creatures, such as justice and equity in rewarding or punish- 
ing, the love of virtue and abhorrence of wickedness : for, as 
every thing in it is God's doing, there can be no vice to be 
punished or abhorred, no virtue in his creatures to be rewarded. 
[According to the system of necessity, the whole universe of 
creatures in this natural world ; and of every thing done in it, God 
is the sole agent. There can be no moral government, nor moral 
obligation. Laws, rewards, and punishments, are only mechani- 
cal engines, and the will of the lawgiver is obeyed as much when 
his laws are transgressed, as when they are observed.] Such 
must be our notions of the government of the world, upon the 
supposition of necessity. It must be purely mechanical, and 
there can be no moral government upon that hypothesis. 

VII. The moral government of God consistent ivith liberty. — 
Let us consider, on the other hand, what notion of the Divine 
government we are naturally led into by the supposition of liberty. 
They who adopt this system conceive, that in that small por- 
tion of the universe which falls under our view, as a great part 
has no active power, but moves, as it is moved, by necessity, 
and therefore must be subject to a mechanical government, so it 
has pleased the Almighty to bestow upon some of his creatures, 
particularly upon man, some degree of active power, and of 
reason, to direct him to the right use of his power. 

What connexion there may be, in the nature of things, be- 
tween reason and active power, we know not. But we see evi- 
dently, that, as reason without active power can do nothing, so 
^ctive power without reason has no guide to direct it to any end. 
These two conjoined make moral liberty, which, in how small 
) a degree soever it is possessed, raises man to a superior rank in 
I the creation of God. He is not merely a tool in the hand of 

V_ T 



274 ESSAY IV. CHAP. V. 

the master, but a servant, in the proper sense, who has a cer- 
tain trust, and is accountable for the discharge of it. Within 
the sphere of his power, he has a subordinate dominion or go- 
vernment, and therefore may be said to be made after the image 
of God, the Supreme Governor. But [as his dominion is sub- 
ordinate, he is under a moral obligation to make a right use of it, 
as far as the reason which God hath given him can direct him.] 
When he does so, he is a just object of moral approbation ; and 
no less an object of disapprobation and just punishment when he 
abuses the power with which he is intrusted. And he must 
finally render an account of the talent committed to him, to 
the Supreme Governor and righteous Judge. 

[This is the moral government of God, which, far from being 
inconsistent with liberty, supposes liberty in those that are sub- 
ject to it, and can extend no farther than that liberty extends ; 
for accountableness can no more agree with necessity than light 
with darkness.] 

VIII. [It ought likewise to be observed, that as active power 
in man, and in every created being, is the gift of God, it de- 
pends entirely on his pleasure for its existence, its degree and 
its continuance, and therefore can do nothing which he does not 
see Jit to permit.'] 

Our power to act does not exempt us from being acted upon, 
and restrained or compelled by a superior power; and the power 
of God is always superior to that of man. 

It would be great folly and presumption in us to pretend to 
know all the ways in which the government of the Supreme 
Being is carried on, and his purposes accomplished by men, acting 
freely and having different or opposite purposes in their view. 
For, as the heavens are high above the earth, so are his thoughts 
above our thoughts, and his ways above our ways. 

That a man may have great influence upon the voluntary de- 
terminations of other men, by means of education, example, and 
persuasion, is a fact which must be granted, whether we adopt 
the system of liberty or necessity. How far such determinations 
ought to be imputed to the person who applied those means, how 
far to the person influenced by them, we know not, but God 
knows, and will judge righteously. 

But what I would here observe, is, that if a man of superior 
talents may have so great influence over the actions of his fellow- 
creatures, without taking away their liberty, it is surely reason- 
able to allow a much greater influence of the same kind to him 
who made man. Nor can it ever be proved, that the wisdom 
and power of the Almighty are insufficient for governing free 
agents, so as to answer his purposes. 

[He who made man may have ways of governing his determi- 
nations, consistent with moral liberty, of which we have no con- 



FIRST ARGUMENT. 215 

ception. And he who gave this liberty freely, may lay any re- 
straint upon it that is necessary for answering his wise and 
benevolent purposes.] The justice of his government requires 
that his creatures should be accountable only for what they have 
received, and not for what was never intrusted to them. And 
we are sure that the Judge of all the earth will do what is right. 

[Thus, I think, it appears that, upon the supposition of ne- 
cessity^ there can be no moral government of the universe. Its 
government must be perfectly mechanical, and every thing done 
in it, whether good or ill, must be God's doing ; and that, upon 
the supposition of liberty, there may be a perfect moral govern<- 
ment of the universe, consistent with his accomplishing all his 
purposes, in its creation and government.] 

The arguments to prove that man is endowed with moral 
liberty, which have the greatest weight with me, are three : 
First, Because he has a natural conviction or belief, that, in 
many cases, he acts freely; secondly, Because he is account- 
able ; and, thirdly, Because he is able to prosecute an end by a 
long series of means adapted to it. 



CHAPTER VI. 



FIRST ARGUMENT. 



I. We have, by our constitution, a natural conviction or belief 
that we act freely : a conviction so early, so universal, and so 
necessary in most of our rational operations, that it must be the 
result of our constitution, and the work of Him that made us. 

Some of the most strenuous advocates for the doctrine of ne- 
cessity acknowledge that it is impossible to act upon it. They 
say that we have a natural sense or conviction that we act freely, 
but that this is a fallacious sense. 

[This doctrine is dishonourable to our Maker, and lays a foun- 
dation for universal scepticism. It supposes the Author of our 
being to have given us one faculty on purpose to deceive us, 
and another by which we may detect the fallacy, and find that 
he imposed upon us.]* 

If any one of our natural faculties be fallacious, there can be 
no reason to trust to any of them; for he that made one made 
all. 

The genuine dictate of our natural faculties is the voice of 
God, no less than what he reveals from heaven ; and to say that 
it is fallacious, is to impute a lie to the God of truth. 

* Vide Essay III. chap. vi. sect. 5 ; "The Intellectual Powers," Essay II. 
chap. xxii. sect. 3; and Essay VII. chap. xxii. sect. 11. 

T 2 



276 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VI. 

If candour and veracity be not an essential part of moral ex- 
cellence, there is no such thing as moral excellence, nor any 
reason to rely on the declarations and promises of the Almighty. 
A man may be tempted to lie, but not without being conscious 
of guilt and of meanness. Shall we impute to the Almighty 
what we cannot impute to a man without a heinous affront ? 

II. Passing this opinion, therefore, as shocking to an ingenu- 
ous mind, and, in its consequences, subversive of all religion, 
all morals and all knowledge, let us proceed to consider the evi- 
dence of our having a natural conviction that we have some de- 
gree of active poiver. 

The very conception or idea of active power must be derived 
from something in our own constitution. It is impossible to 
account for it otherwise. We see events, but we see not the 
power that produces them. We perceive one event to follow 
another, but we perceive not the chain that binds them together. 
The notion of power and causation, therefore, cannot be got 
from external objects. 

Yet the notion of causes, and the belief that every event must 
have a cause which had power to produce it, is found in every 
human mind so firmly established, that it cannot be rooted out. 

This notion and this belief must have its origin from some- 
thing in our constitution ; and that it is natural to man, appears 
from the following observations. 

[1. We are conscious of many voluntary exertions, some 
easy, others more difficult, some requiring a great effort. These 
are exertions of power.'] And though a man may be unconscious 
of his power when he does not exert it, he must have both the 
conception and the belief of it, when he knowingly and willingly 
exerts it, with intention to produce some effect. 

[2. Deliberation about an action of moment, whether we shall 
do it or not, implies a conviction that it is in our power.] To 
deliberate about an end, we must be convinced that the means 
are in our power ; and to deliberate about the means, we must 
be convinced that we have power to choose the most proper. 

[3. Suppose our deliberation brought to an issue, and that 
we resolve to do what appeared proper, can we form such a reso- 
lution or purpose, without any conviction of power to execute it ? 
No ; it is impossible.] A man cannot resolve to lay out a sum 
of money, which he neither has, nor hopes ever to have. 

[4. Again, when I plight my faith in any promise or contract, 
I must believe that I shall have power to perform what I promise.] 
Without this persuasion, a promise would be downright fraud. 

There is a condition implied in every promise, if we live, and 
if God continue with us the power which he hath given us. Our 
conviction, therefore, of this power, derogates not in the least 
from our dependence upon God. The rudest savage is taught 



FIRST ARGUMENT. 2T7 

by nature to admit this condition in all promises, whether it be 
expressed or not. For it is a dictate of common sense, that 
we can be under no obligation to do what it is impossible for us 
to do. 

If we act upon the system of necessity, there must be another 
condition implied in all deliberation, in every resolution, and in 
every promise, and that is, if we shall be willing. But the will 
not being in our power, we cannot engage for it. 

If this condition be understood, as it must be understood if 
we act upon the system of necessity, there can be no deliberation 
or resolution, nor any obligation in a promise. A man might 
as well deliberate, resolve, and promise, upon the actions of other 
men as upon his own. 

It is no less evident, that we have a conviction of power in 
other men, when we advise, or persuade, or command, or con- 
ceive them to be under obligation by their promises. 

[5. Is it possible for any man to blame himself for yielding to 
necessity ? Then he may blame himself for dying, or for being 
a man.] Blame supposes a wrong use of power ; and when a 
man does as well as it was possible for him to do, wherein is he 
to be blamed ? Therefore all conviction of wrong conduct, all 
remorse and self-condemnation, imply a conviction of our power 
to have done better. Take away this conviction, and there may 
be a sense of misery, or a dread of evil to come, but there can 
be no sense of guilt, or resolution to do better. 

Many who hold the doctrine of necessity, disown these conse- 
quences of it, and think to evade them. To such they ought 
not to be imputed ; but their inseparable connexion with that 
doctrine appears self-evident : and therefore some late patrons 
of it have had the boldness to avow them. " They cannot accuse 
themselves of having done anything wrong in the ultimate sense 
of the words. In a strict sense, they have nothing to do with 
repentance, confession, and pardon, these being adapted to a 
fallacious view of things." 

Those who can adopt these sentiments, may indeed celebrate, 
with high encomiums, the great and glorious doctrine of necessity. 
It restores them, in their own conceit, to the state of innocence. 
It delivers them from all the pangs of guilt and remorse, and 
from all fear about their future conduct, though not about their 
fate. They may be as secure that they shall do nothing wrong, 
as those who have finished their course. A doctrine so flatter- 
ing to the mind of a sinner, is very apt to give strength to weak 
arguments. 

After all, it is acknowledged by those who boast of this 
glorious doctrine, "That every man, let him use what efforts 
he can, will necessarily feel the sentiments of shame, remorse, 



278 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VI. 

f and repentance, and, oppressed with a sense of guilt, will have 

^recourse to that mercy of which he stands in need.") 

* The meaning of this seems to me to be, that although the doctrine 

r of necessity be supported by invincible arguments, and though 

it be the most, consolatory doctrine in the world ; yet no man, in 

his most serious moments, when he sifts himself before the throne 

J of his Maker, can possibly believe it, but must then necessarily 

< lay aside this glorious doctrine, and all its nattering consequences, 

and return to the humiliating conviction of his having made a 

\bad use of the power which God had given him. 






III. [ The belief of acting freely is coeval with our reason, uni- 



versal, and necessary. — If the belief of our having active power 
be necessarily implied in those rational operations we have men- 
tioned, it must be coeval with our reason ; it must be as uni- 
versal among men, and as necessary in the conduct of life as 
those operations are.] 

We cannot recollect by memory when it began. It cannot be 
a prejudice of education, or of false philosophy. It must be a 
part of our constitution, or the necessary result of our constitu- 
tion, and therefore the w T ork of God. 

It resembles, in this respect, our belief of the existence of a 
material world ; our belief that those we converse with are living 
and intelligent beings ; our belief that those things did really 
happen which we distinctly remember, and our belief that w T e 
continue the same identical persons. 

We find difficulty in accounting for our belief of these things ; 
and some philosophers think that they have discovered good 
reasons for throwing it off. But it sticks fast, and the greatest 
sceptic finds, that he must yield to it in his practice, while he 
wages war with it in speculation. 

IV. [If it be objected to this argument, that the belief of our 
acting freely cannot be implied in the operations we have men- 
tioned, because those operations are performed by them who 
believe that we are, in all our actions, governed by necessity. 
The answer to this objection is, that men in their practice may 
be governed by a belief which in speculation they reject.] 

However strange and unaccountable this may appear, there 
are many well known instances of it. 

t^° I knew a man who was as much convinced as any man of 
the folly of the popular belief of apparitions in the dark, yet he 
could not sleep in a room alone, nor go alone into a room in the 
dark. Can it be said, that his fear did not imply a belief of 
danger? This is impossible. Yet his philosophy convinced 
him, that he was in no more danger in the dark when alone, 
than with company. 

Here an unreasonable belief, which was merely a prejudice of 



FIRST ARGUMENT. 219 

the nursery, stuck so fast as to govern his conduct, in opposition 
to his speculative belief as a philosopher and a man of sense. 

There are few persons who can look down from the battle- 
ment of a very high tower without fear, while their reason con- 
vinces them that they are in no more danger than when standing 
upon the ground. 

There have been persons who professed to believe that there 
is no distinction between virtue and vice, yet in their practice 
they resented injuries, and esteemed noble and virtuous actions. 

There have been sceptics who professed to disbelieve their 
senses, and every human faculty ; but no sceptic was ever known, 
who did not, in practice, pay a regard to his senses and to his 
other faculties.* 

There are some points of belief so necessary, that, without 
them, a man would not be the being which God made him. 
These may be opposed in speculation, but it is impossible to 
root them out. In a speculative hour they seem to vanish, but 
in practice they resume their authority. This seems to be the 
case of those who hold the doctrine of necessity, and yet act as 
if they were free. 

[This natural conviction of some degree of power in ourselves 
and in other men, respects voluntary actions only. For, as all 
our power is directed by our will, we can form no conception 
of power, properly so called, that is not under the direction of 
will. And therefore our exertions, our deliberations, our pur- 
poses, our promises, are only in things that depend upon our 
will.] Our advices, exhortations, and commands, are only in 
things that depend upon the will of those to whom they are 
addressed. We impute no guilt to ourselves, nor to others, in 
things where the will is not concerned. 

V. Exceptions. — But it deserves our notice, that we do not 
conceive every thing, without exception, to be in a man's power 
which depends upon his will. There are many exceptions to this 
general rule. The most obvious of these I shall mention, 
because they both serve to illustrate the rule, and are of import- 
ance in the question concerning the liberty of man. 

[(1) In the rage of madness, men are absolutely deprived of 
the power of self-government. They act voluntarily, but their 
will is driven as by a tempest, which, in lucid intervals, they 
resolve to oppose with all their might, but are overcome when 
the fit of madness returns.] 

[(2) Idiots are like men walking in the dark, who cannot be 
said to have the power of choosing their way, because they can- 
not distinguish the good road from the bad.] Having no light 
in their understanding, they must either sit still, or be carried 
on by some blind impulse. 

* Vide " The Intellectual Powers of Man," Essay VII. chap. iv. sec. 12. 



280 ESSAY IV. CHAP, VI. 

[(3) Between the darkness of infancy, which is equal to that of 
idiots, and the maturity of reason, there is a long twilight, which, 
by insensible degrees, advances to the perfect day. 

In this period of life, man has but little of the power of self- 
government.] His actions, by nature, as well as by the laws of 
society, are in the power of others more than in his own. His 
folly and indiscretion, his levity and inconstancy, are considered 
as the fault of youth, rather than of the man. We consider 
him as half a man and half a child, and expect that each by 
turns should play its part. He would be thought a severe and 
, unequitable censor of manners, who required the same cool 
\ deliberation, the same steady conduct, and the same mastery 
over himself in a boy of thirteen, as in a man of thirty. 

[(4) It is an old adage, that violent anger is a short Jit of mad- 
ness. If this be literally true in any case, a man, in such a fit 
of passion, cannot be said to have the command of himself.] If 
real madness could be proved, it must have the effect of mad- 
ness while it lasts, whether it be for an hour or for life. But 
the madness of a short fit of passion, if it be really madness, is 
incapable of proof; and therefore is not admitted in human 
tribunals as an exculpation. And, I believe, there is no case 
where a man can satisfy his own mind that his passion, both in 
* its beginning and in its progress, was irresistible. The Searcher 
of hearts alone knows infallibly what allowance is due in cases 
of this kind. 

[But a violent passion, though it may not be irresistible, is 
difficult to be resisted: and a man, surely, has not the same 
power over himself in passion as when he is cool. On this 
account it is allowed by all men to alleviate, when it cannot 
exculpate ; and has its weight in criminal courts, as well as in 
private judgment.] 

fit ought likewise to be observed, that he who has accustomed 
himself to restrain his passions, enlarges by habit his power over 
them, and consequently over himself. ) When we consider that 
a Canadian savage can acquire the power of defying death, in its 
most dreadful forms, and of braving the most exquisite torment 
for many long hours, without losing the command of himself;* 
we may learn from this, that, in the constitution of human 
nature, there is ample scope for the enlargement of that power 
of self-command, without which there can be no virtue nor mag- 
nanimity. 

[(5) There are cases, however, in which a man's voluntary 
actions are thought to be very little, if at all, in his power, on 
account of the violence of the motive that impels him. The 
magnanimity of a hero, or of a martyr, is not expected in every 
man, and on all occasions.] 

* Vide note to page 175. 



FIRST ARGUMENT. c?8l 

If a man trusted by the government with a secret, which 
it is high treason to disclose, be prevailed upon by a bribe, we 
have no mercy for him, and hardly allow the greatest bribe to 
be any alleviation of his crime. 

But, on the other hand, if the secret be extorted by the rack, 
or by the dread of present death, we pity him more than we 
blame him, and would think it severe and unequitable to con- 
demn him as a traitor. 

What is the reason that all men agree in condemning this 
man as a traitor in the first case, and in the last, either excul- 
pate him, or think his fault greatly alleviated ? If he acted 
necessarily in both cases, compelled by an irresistible motive, I 
can see no reason why we should not pass the same judgment 
on both. 

But the reason of these different judgments is evidently this, 
that the love of money, and of what is called a man's interest, is 
a cool motive, which leaves to a man the entire power over 
himself : but the torment of the rack, or the dread of present 
death, are so violent motives, that men, who have not uncommon 
strength of mind, are not masters of themselves in such a situa- 
tion, and therefore what they do is not imputed, or is thought 
less criminal. 

If a man resist such motives, we admire his fortitude, and 
think his conduct heroical rather than human. If he yields, we 
impute it to human frailty, and think him rather to be pitied 
than severely censured. 

[(6) Inveterate habits are acknowledged to diminish very con- 

jsiderably the power a man has over himself. Although we may 

J think him highly blameable in acquiring them, yet, when they 

; are confirmed to a certain degree, we consider him as no longer 

master of himself and hardly reclaimable without a miracle.] 

VI. [Thus we see, that the power which we are led, by com- 
mon sense, to ascribe to man, respects his voluntary actions only, 
and that it has various limitations even with regard to them.] 
Some actions that depend upon our will are easy, others very 
.'difficult, and some, perhaps, beyond our power. In different 
( men, the power of self-government is different, and in the same 
f man at different times. It may be diminished, or perhaps lost, 
: by bad habits ;(it may be greatly increased by good habits.^ 

These are facts attested by experience, and supported by the 
common judgment of mankind. Upon the system of liberty, 
they are perfectly intelligible ; but, I think, irreconcilable to 
that of necessity ; for, how can there be an easy and a difficult 
in actions equally subject to necessity ? or, how can power be 
greater or less, increased or diminished, in those who have no 
power ? 

This natural conviction of our acting freely, which is acknow- 



* 



£gg ESSAY IV. CHAP. VII. 

ledged by many who hold the doctrine of necessity, ought to 
throw the whole burden of proof upon that side : for, by this, 
the side of liberty has what lawyers call a jus qucesitum, or a 
right of ancient possession, which ought to stand good till it be 
overturned. If it cannot be proved that we always act from 
necessity, there is no need of arguments on the other side, to 
convince us that we are free agents. 

To illustrate this by a similar case : If a philosopher would 
persuade me, that my fellow-men with whom I converse, are not 
thinking intelligent beings, but mere machines, though I might 
be at a loss to find arguments against this strange opinion, I 
should think it reasonable to hold the belief which nature gave 
me before I was capable of weighing evidence, until convincing 
proof is brought against it. 



CHAPTER VII. 

SECOND ARGUMENT. 



I I. Certain first principles universally conceded. — That there 
is a real and essential distinction between right and wrong con- 
duct, between just and unjust ; that the most perfect moral rec- 
titude is to be ascribed to the Deity ; that man is a moral and 
accountable being, capable of acting right and wrong, and an- 
swerable for his conduct to him who made him, and assigned 
him a part to act upon the stage of life ; are principles pro- 
claimed by every man's conscience ; principles upon which the 
systems of morality and natural religion, as well as the system 
of revelation, are grounded, and which have been generally 
acknowledged by those who hold contrary opinions on the 
subject of human liberty. I shall therefore here take them for 
granted. J 

These principles afford an obvious, and, I think, an invincible 
argument, that man is endowed with moral liberty. 

[Two things are implied in the notion of a moral and account- 
able being ; understanding and active power.] 

First. He must understand the law to which he is bound, and 
his obligation to obey it. Moral obedience must be voluntary, 
and must regard the authority of the law. I may command my 
horse to eat when he hungers, and drink when he thirsts. He 
does so ; but his doing it is no moral obedience. He does not 
understand my command, and therefore can have no will to 
obey it. He has not the conception of moral obligation, and 
therefore cannot act from the conviction of it. In eating and 
drinking he is moved by his own appetite only, and not by my 
authority. 



SECOND ARGUMENT. ggg 

Brute animals are incapable of moral obligation, because they 
have not that degree of understanding which it implies. They 
have not the conception of a rule of conduct, and of obligation 
to obey it, and therefore, though they may be noxious, they 
cannot be criminal. 

Man, by his rational nature, is capable both of understanding 
the law that is prescribed to him, and of perceiving its obligation. 
He knows what it is to be just and honest, to injure no man, and 
to obey his Maker. From his constitution, he has an immediate 
conviction of his obligation to these things. He has the appro- 
bation of his conscience when he acts by these rules ; and he is 
conscious of guilt and demerit when he transgresses them. And, 
without this knowledge of his duty and his obligation, he would 
not be a moral and accountable being. 

Secondly. Another thing implied in the notion of a moral and 
accountable being, is power to do what he is accountable for. 

That no man can be under a moral obligation to do what it is 
impossible for him to do, or to forbear what is impossible for 
him to forbear, is an axiom as self-evident as any in mathematics. 
It cannot be contradicted without overturning all notion of moral 
obligation ; nor can there be any exception to it, when it is 
rightly understood. 

Some moralists have mentioned what they conceive to be an 
exception to this maxim. The exception is this : [When a man, 
by his own fault, has disabled himself from doing his duty, his 
obligation, they say, remains, though he is now unable to dis- 
charge it. Thus, if a man by sumptuous living has become 
bankrupt, his inability to pay his debt does not take away his 
obligation.] 

To judge whether, in this and similar cases, there be any 
exception to the axiom above mentioned, they must be stated 
accurately. 

I No doubt a man is highly criminal in living above his fortune, 
and his crime is greatly aggravated by the circumstance of his 
being thereby unable to pay his just debt. Let us suppose, 
therefore, that he is punished for this crime as much as it 
deserves ; that his goods are fairly distributed among his credi- 
tors, and that one half remains unpaid : let us suppose also, that 
he adds no new crime to what is past, that he becomes a new 
man, and not only supports himself by honest industry, but does 
all in his power to pay what he still owes. 

I would now ask, Is he further punishable and really guilty 
for not paying more than he is able ? Let every man consult his 
conscience, and say whether he can blame this man for not doing 
more than he is able to do. . His guilt before his bankruptcy is 
out of the question, as he has received the punishment due for 
it. But that his subsequent conduct is unblameable, every man 



284 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VII. 

must allow ; and that, in his present state, he is accountable for 
no more than he is able to do. His obligation is not cancelled, 
it returns with his ability, and can go no farther. 

fi§F Suppose a sailor, employed in the navy of his country, 
and longing for the ease of a public hospital as an invalid, to 
cut off his fingers, so as to disable him from doing the duty of a 
sailor ; he is guilty of a great crime ; but, after he has been 
punished according to the demerit of his crime, will his captain 
insist that he shall still do the duty of a sailor ? Will he com- 
mand him to go aloft when it is impossible for him to do it, and 
punish him as guilty of disobedience ? Surely if there be any 
such thing as justice and injustice, this would be unjust and 
wanton cruelty. 

HF Suppose a servant, through negligence and inattention, 
mistakes the orders given him by his master, and, from this 
mistake, does what he was ordered not to do. It is commonly 
said that culpable ignorance does not excuse a fault : this deci- 
sion is inaccurate, because it does not show where the fault 
lies : the fault was solely in that inattention, or negligence, 
which was the occasion of his mistake : there was no subsequent 
fault. 

This becomes evident, when we vary the case so far as to sup- 
pose that he was unavoidably led into the mistake without any 
fault on his part. His mistake is now invincible, and, in the 
opinion of all moralists, takes away all blame ; yet this new case 
supposes no change, but in the cause of his mistake. His sub- 
sequent conduct was the same in both cases. The fault, there- 
fore, lay solely in the negligence and inattention which was the 
cause of his mistake. 

[The axiom, that " Invincible ignorance takes away all 
blame," is only a particular case of the general axiom, " That 
there can be no moral obligation to what is impossible;" the 
former is grounded upon the latter, and can have no other 
foundation.] 

( [ggF I shall put only one case more. Suppose that a man, 
vy excess and intemperance, has entirely destroyed his rational 
faculties, so as to have become perfectly mad or idiotical ; sup- 
pose him forewarned of his danger, and that though he foresaw 
that this must be the consequence, he went on still in his crimi- 
nal indulgence. A greater crime can hardly be supposed, or 
more deserving of severe punishment. Suppose him punished 
as he deserves ; will it be said, that the duty of a man is incum- 
bent upon him now, when he has not the faculties of a man, or 
that he incurs new guilt when he is not a moral agent ? Surely 
we may as well suppose a plant, or a clod of earth, to be a 
subject of moral duty. } 

The decisions I have given of these cases, are grounded upon 



SECOND ARGUMENT. gg5 

the fundamental principles of morals, the most immediate dic- 
tates of conscience. If these principles are given up, all moral 
reasoning is at an end, and no distinction is left between what 
is just and what is unjust. And it is evident, that [none of 
these cases * furnishes any exception to the axiom above men- 
tioned. No moral obligation can be consistent with impossi- 
bility in the performance.] 

II. [Active power, therefore, is necessarily implied in the very 
notion of a moral accountable being. And if man be such a 
being, he must have a degree of active power proportioned to 
the account he is to make.] He may have a model of perfection 
set before him which he is unable to reach ; but, if he does to 
the utmost of his power, this is all he can be answerable for. 
To incur guilt by not going beyond his power is impossible. 

What was said, in the first argument,-}- of the limitation of our 
power, adds much strength to the present argument. A man's 
power, it was observed, extends only to his voluntary actions, 
and has many limitations, even with respect to them. 

His accountableness has the same extent and the same limita- 
tions. 

In the rage of madness he has no power over himself, neither 
is he accountable, or capable of moral obligation. ^In ripe age 
man is accountable, in a greater degree than in non-age, because 
his power over himself is greater. J Violent passions, and violent 
motives alleviate what is done through their influence, in the 
same proportion as they diminish the power of resistance. 

There is, therefore, a perfect correspondence between power, 
on the one hand, and moral obligation and accountableness, on 
the other. They not only correspond in general, as they respect 
voluntary actions only, but every limitation of the first produces 
a corresponding limitation of the two last. This, indeed, amounts 
to nothing more than that maxim of common sense confirmed 
by Divine authority, That to whom much is given, of him much 
will be required. 

III. [The sum of this argument is, (1) That a certain degree of 
active power is the talent which God hath given to every rational 
accountable creature, and of which he will require an account. 

(2) If man had no power, he would have nothing to account for. 

(3) All wise and all foolish conduct, all virtue and vice, consist 
in the right use or in the abuse of that power which God hath 
given us. If man had no power, he could neither be wise nor 
foolish, virtuous nor vicious.] 

"■"If we adopt the system of necessity, the terms moral obligation 
and accountableness, praise and blame, merit and demerit, justice 
and injustice, reward and punishment, wisdom and folly, virtue 

* The bankrupt, sailor, servant, and spendthrift, 
f Vide preceding chapter, sec. 5, et seq. 



gg{3 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VIIL 

and vice, ought to be disused, or to have new meanings given to 
them when they are used in religion, in morals, or in civil 
government ; for upon that system, there can be no such things 
as they have been always used to signify. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

THIRD ARGUMENT. 

1 1. That man has power over his own actions and volitions 
appears, because he is capable of carrying on, wisely and pru- 
dently, a system of conduct, which he has before conceived in 
his mind, and resolved to prosecute. \ 

I take it for granted, that, among the various characters of 
men, there have been some, who, after they came to years of 
understanding, deliberately laid down a plan of conduct, which 
they resolved to pursue through life ; and that of these, some 
have steadily pursued the end they had in view, by the proper 
means. 

It is of no "consequence in this argument, whether one has 
made the best choice of his main end or not ; whether his end 
be riches, or power, or fame, or the approbation of his Maker. 
I suppose only, that he has prudently and steadily pursued it ; 
that, in a long course of deliberate actions, he has taken the 
means that appeared most conducive to his end, and avoided 
whatever might cross it. 

That such conduct in a man demonstrates a certain degree of 
wisdom and understanding, no man ever doubted ; and, I say, it 
demonstrates, with equal force, a certain degree of power over 
his voluntary determinations. 

This will appear evident, if we consider, that [understanding 
without power may project, but can execute nothing. A regular 
plan of conduct, as it cannot be contrived without understanding, 
so it cannot be carried into execution without power; and, 
therefore, the execution, as an effect, demonstrates, with equal 
force, both power and understanding in the cause.] Every indi- 
cation of wisdom, taken from the effect, is equally an indication 
of power to execute what wisdom planned A And, if we have any 
evidence, that the wisdom which formed the plan is in the man, 
we have the very same evidence, that the power which executed 
it is in him also. ^ 

II. Argument from analogy, — In this argument, we reason 
from the same principles, as in demonstrating the being and per- 
fections of the First Cause of all things. 

The effects we observe in the course of nature require a cause. 



THIRD ARGUMENT. gffl 

Effects wisely adapted to an end, require a wise cause. Every 
indication of the wisdom of the Creator is equally an indication 
of his power. His wisdom appears only in the works done by 
his power ; for wisdom without power may speculate, but it can- 
not act : it may plan, but it cannot execute its plans. 

The same reasoning we apply to the works of men. mr In 
a stately palace we see the wisdom of the architect. His wisdom 
contrived it, and wisdom could do no more. The execution re- 
quired, both a distinct conception of the plan, and power to 
operate according to that plan. 

III. Its application, — Let us apply these principles to the 
supposition we have made, That a man, in a long course of con- 
duct, has determined and acted prudently in the prosecution of 
a certain end. If the man had both the wisdom to plan this 
course of conduct, and that power over his own actions that was 
necessary to carry it into execution, he is a free agent, and used 
his liberty, in this instance, with understanding. 

But if all his particular determinations, which concurred in 
the execution of this plan, were produced, not by himself, but 
by some cause acting necessarily upon him, then there is no 
evidence left that he contrived this plan, or that he ever spent a 
thought about it. 

[The cause that directed all these determinations so wisely, 
whatever it was, must be a wise and intelligent cause ; it must 
have understood the plan, and have intended the execution 
of it.] 

IV. Objection and answer. — [If it be said, that all this course 
of determinations was produced by motives ; motives surely have 
not understanding to conceive a plan, and intend its execution. 
We must therefore go back beyond motives to some intelligent 
being who had the power of arranging those motives, and apply- 
ing them, in their proper order and season, so as to bring about 
the end.] 

This intelligent being must have understood the plan, and 
intended to execute it. If this be so, as the man had no hand 
in the execution, we have not any evidence left, that he had any 
hand in the contrivance, or even that he is a thinking being. 

. If we can believe, that an extensive series of means may con- 
spire to promote an end without a cause that intended the end, 
and had power to choose and apply those means for the pur- 
pose, we may as well believe, that this world was made by a for- 
tuitous concourse of atoms, without an intelligent and powerful 
cause. 

$gp° If a lucky concourse of motives could produce the conduct 
of an Alexander or a Julius Caesar, no reason can be given why 
a lucky concourse of atoms might not produce the planetary 
svstem. 



288 ESSAY IV. CHAP. VIII. 

£ If, therefore, wise conduct in a man demonstrates that he has 
some degree of wisdom, it demonstrates, with equal force and 
evidence, that he has some degree of power over his own deter- 
minations. \ 

All the reason we can assign for believing that our fellow-men 
think and reason, is grounded upon their actions and speeches. 
If they are not the cause of these, there is no reason left to con- 
clude that they think and reason. 

Des Cartes thought that the human body is merely a mechani- 
cal engine, and that all its motions and actions are produced by 
mechanism. If such a machine could be made to speak and to 
act rationally, we might indeed conclude with certainty, that the 
maker of it had both reason and active power ; but if we once 
knew, that all the motions of the machine were purely mechani- 
cal, we should have no reason to conclude that the man had rea- 
son or thought. 

[The conclusion of this argument is, That, if the actions and 
speeches of other men give us sufficient evidence that they are 
reasonable beings, they give us the same evidence, and the same 
degree of evidence, that they are free agents.'] 

V. There is another conclusion that may be drawn from this 
reasoning, which it is proper to mention. 

Suppose a fatalist, rather than give up the scheme of neces- 
sity, should acknowledge that he has no evidence that there is 
thought and reason in any of his fellow-men, and that they may 
be mechanical engines for all that he knows ; he will be forced 
to acknowledge, that there must be active power, as well as 
understanding, in the maker of those engines, and that the First 
Cause is a free agent. We have the same reason to believe this, 
as to believe his existence and his wisdom. [And if the Deity 
acts freely, every argument brought to prove that freedom of 
action is impossible, must fall to the ground.] 

The First Cause gives us evidence of his power by every 
effect that gives us evidence of his wisdom. And, if he is 
pleased to communicate to the work of his hands some degree of 
his wisdom, no reason can be assigned why he may not com- 
municate some degree of his power, as the talent which wisdom 
is to employ. 

That the first motion, or the first effect, whatever it be, cannot 
be produced necessarily, and, consequently, that the First Cause 
must be a free agent, has been demonstrated so clearly and unan- 
swerably by Dr. Clarke, both in his " Demonstration of the 
Being and Attributes of God," and in the end of his Remarks 
on Collins's " Philosophical Inquiry concerning Human Liberty," 
that I can add nothing to what he has said ; nor have I found 
any objection made to his reasoning, by any of the defenders of 
necessity. 



289 



CHAPTER IX. 



OF ARGUMENTS FOIl NECESSITY. 



I. Three classes of arguments against human liberty. — Some 
of the arguments that have been offered for necessity were 
already considered in this Essay. 

It has been said. That human liberty respects only the 
actions that are subsequent to volition ; and that power over 
the determinations of the will is inconceivable, and involves a 
contradiction. This argument was considered in the first 
chapter. 

It has been said, That liberty is inconsistent with the influ- 
ence of motives, that it would make human actions capricious, 
and man ungovernable by Grod or man. These arguments were 
considered in the fourth and fifth chapters. 

[I am now to make some remarks upon other arguments that 
have been urged in this cause. They may, I think, be reduced 
to three classes. They are intended to prove, either (1) that 
liberty of determination is impossible, or (2) that it would be 
hurtful, or (3) that, in fact, man has no such liberty.] 

To prove that liberty of determination is impossible, it has 
been said, That there must be a sufficient reason for every thing. 
For every existence, for every event, for every truth, there must 
be a sufficient reason, 

II. Boast of Leibnitz. — The famous Grerman Philosopher 
Leibnitz boasted much of having first applied this principle to 
philosophy, and of having, by that means, changed metaphysics 
from being a play of unmeaning words, to be a rational and de- 
monstrative science. On this account it deserves to be considered. 

A very obvious objection to this principle was, That two or 
more means may be equally fit for the same end ; and that, in 
such a case, there may be a sufficient reason for taking one of 
the number, though there be no reason for preferring one to 
another, of means equally fit. 

To obviate this objection, Leibnitz maintained, that the case 
supposed could not happen ; or, if it did, that none of the means 
could be used, for want of a sufficient reason to prefer one to 
the rest. Therefore he determined, with some of the school- 
men, That if an ass could be placed between two bundles of 
hay, or two fields of grass, equally inviting, the poor beast would 
certainly stand still and starve ; but the case, he says, could not 
happen without a miracle. 

When it was objected to this principle, That there could be 
no reason but the will of God why the material world was 
placed in one part of unlimited space rather than another, or 

u 



£90 ESSAY IV. CRAP. IX. 

created at one point of unlimited duration rather than another, 
or why the planets should move from west to east, rather than in 
a contrary direction ; these objections Leibnitz obviated by 
maintaining, That there is no such thing as unoccupied space or 
duration ; that space is nothing but the order of things co-exist- 
ing, and duration is nothing but the order of things successive ; 
that all motion is relative, so that if there were only one body in 
the universe, it would be immoveable ; that it is inconsistent 
with the perfection of the Deity, that there should be any part 
of space unoccupied by body ; and, I suppose, he understood the 
same of every part of duration. So that, according to this 
system, the world, like its Author, must be infinite, eternal, and 
immoveable ; or, at least, as great in extent and duration as it is 
possible for it to be. 

III. Identity of indiscernibles. — When it was objected to the 
principle of a sufficient reason, That of two particles of matter 
perfectly similar, there can be no reason but the will of God 
for placing this here and that there ; this objection Leibnitz 
obviated by maintaining, That it is impossible that there can be 
two particles of matter, or any two things, perfectly similar. 
And this seems to have led him to another of his grand princi- 
ples, which he calls, The identity of indiscernibles. 

When the principle of a sufficient reason had produced so 
many surprising discoveries in philosophy, it is no wonder that 
it should determine the long disputed question about human 
liberty. This it does in a moment. [The determination of the 
will is an event for which there must be a sufficient reason, that 
is, something previous, which was necessarily followed by that 
determination, and could not be followed by any other deter- 
mination ; therefore it was necessary.] 

Thus we see, that this principle of the necessity of a sufficient 
reason for every thing, is very fruitful of consequences ; and by 
its fruits we may judge of it. Those who will adopt it, must 
adopt all the consequences that hang upon it. To fix them all 
beyond dispute, no more is necessary but to prove the truth of 
the principle on which they depend. 

IV. Leibnitz' proof of the truth of his principle only a petitio 
principii. — I know of no argument offered by Leibnitz in proof 
of this principle, but the authority of Archimedes, who, he 
says, makes use of it to prove, that a balance loaded with equal 
weights on both ends will continue at rest. 

I grant it to be good reasoning with regard to a balance, or 
with regard to any machine, That, when there is no external 
cause of its motion, it must remain at rest, because the machine 
has no power of moving itself. But to apply this reasoning to 
a man, is to take for granted that the man is a machine, which is 
the very point in question. 



OF ARGUMENTS FOR NECESSITY. 291 

Leibnitz, and his followers, would have us to take this principle 
of the necessity of a sufficient reason for every existence, for 
every event, for every truth, as a first principle, without proof, 
without explanation ; though it be evidently a vague - proposi- 
tion, capable of various meanings, as the word reason is. It 
must have different meanings when applied to things of so dif- 
ferent nature as an event and a truth ; and it may have different 
meanings when applied to the same thing. We cannot therefore 
form a distinct judgment of it in the gross, but only by taking it 
to pieces, and applying it to different things, in a precise and 
distinct meaning. 

V. Three meanings of the principle of i( a sufficient reason' 
applied to the determinations of the will. — It can have no con- 
nexion with the dispute about liberty, except when it is applied 
to the determinations of the will. Let us therefore suppose a 
voluntary action of a man ; and that the question is put, Whether 
was there a sufficient reason for this action or not ? 

The natural and obvious meaning of this question is, (1) Was 
there a motive to the action sufficient to justify it to be wise and 
good, or, at least, innocent ? Surely, in this sense, there is not 
a sufficient reason for every human action, because there are 
many that are foolish, unreasonable and unjustifiable. 

If the meaning of the question be, (2) Was there a cause of 
the action ? Undoubtedly there was : of every event there must 
be a cause, that had power sufficient to produce it, and that 
exerted that power for the purpose. In the present case, either 
the man was the cause of the action, and then it was a free 
action, and is justly imputed to him ; or it must have had 
another cause, and cannot justly be imputed to the man. In 
this sense, therefore, it is granted that there was a sufficient rea- 
son for the action ; but the question about liberty is not in the 
least affected by this concession. 

If, again, the meaning of the question be, (3) Was there some- 
thing previous to the action, which made it to be necessarily pro- 
duced ? Every man, who believes that the action was free, will 
answer to this question in the negative. 

[I know no other meaning that can be put upon the principle 
of a sufficient reason, when applied to the determinations of the 
human will, besides the three I have mentioned. In the first, 
it is evidently false ; in the second, it is true, but does not affect 
the question about liberty ; in the third, it is a mere assertion of 
necessity without proof.] 

VI. The principle further examined. — Before we leave this 
boasted principle, we may see how it applies to events of another 
kind. When we say that a philosopher has assigned a sufficient 
reason for such a phenomenon, What is the meaning of this ? 
The meaning surely is, That he has accounted for it from the 

u 2 



292 ESSAY IV. CHAP. IX. 

known laws of nature. The sufficient reason of a phenomenon 
of nature must therefore be some law or laws of nature, of which 
the phenomenon is a necessary consequence. But are we sure 
that, hi this sense, there is a sufficient reason for every pheno- 
menon of nature ? I think we are not. 

For, not to speak of miraculous events, in which the laws of 
nature are suspended, or counteracted, we know not but that, in 
the ordinary course of God's providence, there may be particular 
acts of his administration, that do not come under any general 
law of nature. 

Established laws of nature are necessary for enabling intelli- 
gent creatures to conduct their affairs with wisdom and prudence, 
and prosecute their ends by proper means ; but still it may be 
fit, that some particular events should not be fixed by general 
laws, but be directed by particular acts of the Divine govern- 
ment, that so his reasonable creatures may have sufficient induce- 
ment to supplicate his aid, his protection and direction, and to 
depend upon him for the success of their honest designs. 

We see that, in human governments, even those that are most 
legal, it is impossible that every act of the administration should 
be directed by established laws. Some things must be left to 
the direction of the executive power, and particularly acts of 
clemency and bounty to petitioning subjects. That there is 
nothing analogous to this in the Divine government of the world, 
no man is able to prove. 

We have no authority to pray that God would counteract or 
suspend the laws of nature in our behalf. Prayer, therefore, 
supposes that he may lend an ear to our prayers, without trans- 
gressing the laws of nature. Some have thought, that the only 
use of prayer and devotion is, to produce a proper temper and 
disposition in ourselves, and that it has no efficacy with the 
Deity. But this is a hypothesis without proof. It contradicts 
our most natural sentiments, as well as the plain doctrine of 
Scripture, and tends to damp the fervour of every act of 
devotion. 

It was indeed an article of the system of Leibnitz, That the 
Deity, since the creation of the world, never did any thing, 
excepting in the case of miracles ; his work being made so per- 
fect at first, as never to need his interposition. But, in this, he 
was opposed by Sir Isaac Newton, and others of the ablest philo- 
sophers, nor was he ever able to give any proof of this tenet. 

[There is no evidence, therefore, that there is a sufficient rea- 
son for every natural event; if, by a sufficient reason, we under- 
stand some fixed law or laws of nature, of which that event is a 
necessary consequence.] 

VIT. [But what, shall we say, is the sufficient reason for a 
truth ? For our belief of a truth, I think, the sufficient reason 



OF ARGUMENTS FOR NECESSITY. 293 

is our having good evidence ; but what may be meant by a suffi- 
cient reason for its being a truth, I am not able to guess, unless 
the sufficient reason of a contingent truth be, That it is true ; 
and, of a necessary truth, that it must be true. This makes a 
man little wiser.] 

From what has been said, I think it appears, That this prin- 
ciple of the necessity of a sufficient reason for every thing, is 
very indefinite in its signification. If it mean, That of every 
event there must be a cause that had sufficient power to produce 
it, this is true, and has always been admitted as a first principle 
in philosophy, and in common life. If it mean that every event 
must be necessarily consequent upon something (called a suffici- 
ent reason) that went before it ; this is a direct assertion of uni- 
versal fatality, and has many strange, not to say absurd, conse- 
quences : but, in this sense, it is neither self-evident, nor has any 
proof of it been offered. [And, in general, in every sense in 
which it has evidence, it gives no new information ; and, in 
every sense in which it would give new information, it wants 
evidence.] 

VIII. Another argument that has been used to prove liberty 
of action to be impossible is, That it implies " an effect without 



a cause 



"* 



To this it may be briefly answered, [That a free action is an 
effect produced by a being who had power and will to produce it ; 
therefore it is not an effect without a cause.] 

To suppose any other cause necessary to the production of an 
effect, than a being who had the power and the will to produce 
it, is a contradiction ; for it is to suppose that being to have 
power to produce the effect, and not to have power to pro- 
duce it. 

But as great stress is laid upon this argument by a late zealous 
advocate for necessity, we shall consider the light in which he 
puts it. 

He introduces this argument with an observation to which I 
entirely agree : it is, [That to establish this doctrine of necessity, 
nothing is necessary but that, throughout all nature, the same 
consequences should invariably result from the same circum- 
stances.] 

I know nothing more that can be desired to establish universal 
fatality throughout the universe. When it is proved that, 
through all nature, the same consequences invariably result 
from the same circumstances, the doctrine of liberty must be 
given up. 

To prevent all ambiguity, I grant, that, in reasoning, the same 
consequences, throughout all nature, will invariably follow from 
the same premises : because good reasoning must be good rea- 
* Vide sect. 1. of this chapter, p. 289. 



094 ESSAY IV. CHAP. IX. 

soning in all times and places. But this lias nothing to do with 
the doctrine of necessity. [The thing to be proved, therefore, 
in order to establish that doctrine, is, That, through all nature, 
the same events invariably result from the same circumstances^ 

Of this capital point, the proof offered by that author is, That 
an event not preceded by any circumstances that determined it 
to be what it was, would be an effect without a cause. Why so ? 
" For," says he, "a cause cannot be denned to be any thing but 
such previous circumstances as are constantly followed by a certain 
effect; the constancy of the result making us conclude, that there 
must be a sufficient reason, in the nature of things, why it should 
be produced in those circumstances." 

I acknowledge that, if this be the only definition that can be 
given of a cause, it will follow, That an event not preceded by 
circumstances that determined it to be what it was, would be, 
not an effect without a cause, which is a contradiction in terms, 
but an event without a cause, which I hold to be impossible. 
[The matter therefore is brought to this issue, Whether this be 
the only definition that can be given of a cause ?] 

IX. Four consequences of this definition of a cause. — With 
regard to this point, we may observe, first, That this definition 
of a cause, bating the phraseology of putting a cause under the 
category of circumstances, which I take to be new, is the same, 
in other words, with that which Mr. Hume gave, of which he 
ought to be acknowledged the inventor.* For I know of no 
author before Mr. Hume, who maintained, that we have no other 
notion of a cause, but that it is something prior to the effect, 
which has been found by experience to be constantly followed 
by the effect. This is a main pillar of his system ; and he has 
drawn very important consequences from this definition, which I 
am far from thinking this author will adopt. 

Without repeating what I have before said of causes in the 
first of these Essays, and in the second and third chapters of 
this, I shall here mention some of the consequences that may be 
justly deduced from this definition of a cause, that we may judge 
of it by its fruits. 

First, It follows from this definition of a cause, that night is 
the cause of day, and day the cause of night. For no two things 
have more constantly followed each other since the beginning of 
the world. 

Secondly, It follows from this definition of a cause, that, for 
what we know, any thing may be the cause of any thing, since 
nothing is essential to a cause but its being constantly followed 
by the effect. If this be so, what is unintelligent may be the 
cause of what is intelligent ; folly may be the cause of wisdom, 
and evil of good ; all reasoning from the nature of the effect to 
* Essay I. chap. iv. sect. 2. 



OF ARGUMENTS FOR NECESSITY. £95 

the nature of the cause, and all reasoning from final causes, must 
be given up as fallacious. 

Thirdly, From this definition of a cause, it follows, that we 
have no reason to conclude, that every event must have a cause : for 
innumerable events happen, when it cannot be shown that there 
were certain previous circumstances that have constantly been 
followed by such an event. And though it were certain, that 
every event we have had access to observe had a cause, it would 
not follow, that every event must have a cause : for it is contrary 
to the rules of logic to conclude, that, because a thing has always 
been, therefore it must be ; to reason from what is contingent, 
to what is necessary. 

Fourthly, From this definition of a cause, it would follow, 
that we have no reason to conclude that there was any cause of 
the creation of this world : for there were no previous circum- 
stances that had been constantly followed by such an effect. And, 
for the same reason, it would follow from the definition, that what- 
ever was singular in its nature, or the first thing of its kind, 
could have no cause. 

Several of these consequences were fondly embraced by Mr. 
Hume, as necessarily following from his definition of a cause, 
and as favourable to his system of absolute scepticism. Those 
who adopt the definition of a cause, from which they follow, 
may choose whether they will adopt its consequences, or show 
that they do not follow from the definition. 

X. A second observation with regard to this argument* is, 
that a definition of a cause may be given, which is not burdened 
with such untoward consequences. 

Why may not an efficient cause be defined to be a being that 
had power and will to produce the effect ? The production of 
an effect requires active power, and active power, being a qual- 
ity, must be in a being endowed with that power. Power, with- 
out will, produces no effect ; but, where these are conjoined, the 
effect must be produced. 

This, I think, is the proper meaning of the word cause, when 
it is used in metaphysics ; and particularly when we affirm that 
every thing that begins to exist must have a cause ; and when, 
by reasoning, we prove that there must be an eternal First Cause 
of all things. 

Was the world produced by previous circumstances which are 
constantly followed by such an effect ? or, Was it produced by 
a Being that had power to produce it, and willed its production ? 
In natural philosophy, the word cause is often used in a very 
different sense. When an event is produced according to a 
known law of nature, the law of nature is called the cause of 

* i. e. That a cause is " such previous circumstances as are constantly fol- 
lowed by a certain effect." 



296 ESSAY IV. CHAP. IX. 

that event. But a law of nature is not the efficient cause of any 
event. It is only the rule, according to which the efficient 
cause acts. A law is a thing conceived in the mind of a rational 
being, not a thing that has a real existence ; and, therefore, like 
a motive, it can neither act nor be acted upon, and consequently 
cannot be an efficient cause. If there be no being that acts ac- 
cording to the law, it produces no effect. 

This author takes it for granted, that every voluntary action of 
man was determined to be what it was by the laws of nature, in 
the same sense as mechanical motions are determined by the 
laws of motion ; and that every choice, not thus determined, 
" is just as impossible, as that a mechanical motion should de- 
pend upon no certain law or rule, or that any other effect should 
exist without a cause." 

[It ought here to be observed, that there are two kinds of laws, 
both very properly called laws of nature, which ought not to be 
confounded. There are moral laws of nature, and physical laws 
of nature.] The first are the rules which God has prescribed 
to his rational creatures for their conduct. They respect volun- 
tary and free actions only ; for no other actions can be sub- 
ject to moral rules. These laws of nature ought to be always 
obeyed, but they are often transgressed by men. There is there- 
fore no impossibility in the violation of the moral laws of nature, 
nor is such a violation an effect without a cause. The transgressor 
is the cause, and is justly accountable for it. 

The physical laws of nature are the rules according to which 
the Deity commonly acts in his natural government of the world ; 
and, whatever is done according to them, is not done by man, 
but by (rod, either immediately, or by instruments under his 
direction. These laws of nature neither restrain the power of' 
the Author of nature, nor bring him under any obligation to do 
nothing beyond their sphere. He has sometimes acted contrary 
to them, in the case of miracles, and perhaps often acts with- 
out regard to them, in the ordinary course of his providence. 
Neither miraculous events, which are contrary to the physical 
laws of nature, nor such ordinary acts of the Divine administra- 
tion as are without their sphere, are impossible, nor are they 
effects without a cause. Grod is the cause of them, and to him 
only they are to be imputed. 

That the moral laws of nature are often transgressed by man, 
is undeniable. If the physical laws of nature make his obedience 
to the moral laws to be impossible, then he is, in the literal sense, 
born under one law, bound unto another, which contradicts every 
notion of a righteous government of the world. 

But though this supposition were attended with no such 
shocking consequence, it is merely a supposition ; and until it 
be proved that every choice or voluntary action of man is deter- 



OF ARGUMENTS FOR NEC 




mined by the physical laws of nature, this argument for necessity 
is only the taking for granted the point to be proved. 

Of the same kind is the argument for the impossibility of 
liberty, taken from a balance, which cannot move but as it is 
moved by the weights put into it. This argument, though urged 
by almost every writer in defence of necessity, is so pitiful, 
and has been so often answered, that it scarce deserves to be 
mentioned. 

Every argument in a dispute, which is not grounded on prin- 
ciples granted by both parties, is that kind of sophism which 
logicians call petitio principii ; and such, in my apprehension, 
are all the arguments offered to prove that liberty of action is 
impossible. 

It may farther be observed, that every argument of this class 
if it were really conclusive, must extend to the Deity, as well 
as to all created beings ; and necessary existence, which has al- 
ways been considered as the prerogative of the Supreme Being, 
must belong equally to every creature and to every event even 
the most trifling. 

This I take to be the system of Spinosa, and of those among 
the ancients who carried fatality to the highest pitch. 

I before referred the reader to Dr. Clarke's argument, which 
professes to demonstrate that the First Cause is a free agent. 
Until that argument shall be shown to be fallacious, a thing 
which I have not seen attempted, such weak arguments as have 
been brought to prove the contrary, ought to have little weight. 



CHAPTER X. 



THE SAJME SUBJECT. 



I. With regard to the second class of arguments for necessity, 
which are intended to prove that liberty of action would be hurt- 
ful to man,* I have only to observe, that it is a fact too evident 
to be denied, whether we adopt the system of liberty or that of 
necessity, that men actually receive hurt from their own volun- 
tary actions, and from the voluntary actions of other men ; nor 
can it be pretended that this fact is inconsistent with the doctrine 
of liberty, or that it is more unaccountable upon this system 
than upon that of necessity. 

In order, therefore, to draw any solid argument against 
liberty, from its hurtfuhiess, it ought to be proved, that if 
man were a free agent, he would do more hurt to himself, or to 
others, than he actually does. 

To this purpose it has been said, that liberty would make 
* Chap. ix. sect. I. 






298 ESSAY IV. CHAP. X. 

men's actions capricious ; that it would destroy the influence of 
motives ; that it would take away the effect of rewards and pu- 
nishments ; and that it would make man absolutely ungovern- 
able. 

II. Third class of arguments against human liberty. — These 
arguments have been already considered in the fourth and fifth 
chapters of this Essay ; and, therefore, I shall now proceed to 
the third class of arguments for necessity, which are intended 
to prove that, in fact, men are not free agents. 

[The most formidable argument of this class, and, I think, the 
only one that has not been considered in some of the preceding 
chapters, is taken from the prescience of the Deity.']* 

God foresees . every determination of the human mind. It 
must therefore be what he foresees it shall be ; and therefore 
must be necessary. 

This argument may be understood three different ways, each 
of which we shall consider, that we may see all its force. 

The necessity of the event may be thought to be a just conse- 
quence, either barely from its being certainly future, or barely 
from its being foreseen, or from the impossibility of its being 
foreseen, if it was not necessary. 

First, It may be thought, that, as nothing can be known to be 
future, which is not certainly future, so, if it be certainly future, 
it must be necessary. 

[This opinion has no less authority in its favour than that of 
Aristotle, who indeed held the doctrine of liberty, but believing 
at the same time that whatever is certainly future must be neces- 
sary; in order to defend the liberty of human actions, main- 
tained, that contingent events have no certain futurity ; but I 
know of no modern advocate for liberty who has put the defence 
of it upon that issue.] 

It must be granted, that as whatever was, certainly was, and 
whatever is, certainly is, so whatever shall be, certainly shall 
be. These are identical propositions, and cannot be doubted by 
those who conceive them distinctly. 

But I know no rule of reasoning by which it can be inferred 
that, because an event certainly shall be, therefore its produc- 
tion must be necessary. The manner of its production, whe- 
ther free or necessary, cannot be concluded from the time of 
its production, whether it be past, present, or future. That it 
shall be, no more implies that it shall be necessarily, than that 
it shall be freely produced ; for neither present, past, nor future, 
have any more connexion with necessity than they have with 
freedom. 

I grant, therefore, that, from events being foreseen, it may 

* Compare this passage with what has been observed by the author on the 
same subject, in his Treatise on the Intellectual Powers. Essay III. chap. ii. 
sect. 3. 



OF ARGUMENTS FOR NECESSITY. £99 

be justly concluded that they are certainly future ; but from 
their being certainly future, it does not follow that they are 
necessary. 

Secondly, If it be meant by this argument, that an event must 
be necessary, merely because it is foreseen, neither is this a 
just consequence : for it has often been observed, that prescience 
and knowledge of every kind, being an immanent act, has no 
effect upon the thing known. Its mode of existence, whether it 
be free or necessary, is not in the least affected by its being 
known to be future, any more than by its being known to be 
past or present. The Deity foresees his own future free actions, 
but neither his foresight nor his purpose makes them necessary. 
The argument, therefore, taken in this view, as well as in the 
former, is inconclusive. 

A third way in which this argument may be understood, is 
this : It is impossible that an event which is not necessary should 
be foreseen; therefore every event that is certainly foreseen, 
must be necessary. Here the conclusion certainly follows from 
the antecedent proposition, and therefore the whole stress of 
the argument lies upon the proof of that proposition. 

III. [Let us consider, therefore, whether it can be proved, that 
no free action can be certainly foreseen. If this can be proved, it 
will follow, either that all actions are necessary, or that all actions 
cannot be foreseen.] 

With regard to the general proposition, that it is impossible 
that any free action can be certainly foreseen, I observe, 

First, that every man who believes the Deity to be a free 
agent, must believe that this proposition not only is incapable of 
proof, but that it is certainly false : for the man himself foresees, 
that the Judge of all the earth will always do what is right, and 
that he will fulfil whatever he has promised; and at the same 
time, believes, that, in doing what is right, and in fulfilling his 
promises, the Deity acts with the most perfect freedom. 

Secondly, I observe, that every man who believes that it is an 
absurdity or contradiction, that any free action should be cer- 
tainly foreseen, must believe, if he will be consistent, either that 
the Deity is not a free agent, or that he does not foresee his own 
actions ; nor can we foresee that he will do what is right, and 
will fulfil his promises. 

Thirdly, without considering the consequences which this 
general proposition carries in its bosom, which give it a very bad 
aspect, let us attend to the arguments offered to prove it. 

Dr. Priestley has laboured more in the proof of this proposi- 
tion than any other author I am acquainted with, and maintains 
it to be, not only a difficulty and a mystery, as it has been called, 
that a contingent event should be the object of knowledge, but 
that, in reality, there cannot be a greater absurdity or contradic- 
tion. Let us hear the proof of this. 



300 ESSAY IV. CHAP. X. 

" For," says lie, " as certainly as nothing can be known to exist, 
but what does exist, so certainly can nothing be known to arise 
from what does exist, but what does arise from it or depend upon 
it. But, according to the definition of the terms, a contingent 
event does not depend upon any previous known circumstances, 
since some other event might have arisen in the same circum- 
stances." 

This argument, when stripped of incidental and explanatory 
clauses, and affected variations of expression, amounts to this : 
nothing can be known to arise from what does exist, but what 
does arise from it : but a contingent event does not arise from 
what does exist. [The conclusion, which is left to be drawn by 
the reader, must, according to the rules of reasoning, be : there- 
fore a contingent event cannot be known to arise from what 
does exist.] 

It is here very obvious, that a thing may arise from what does 
exist, two ways, freely or necessarily. A contingent event arises 
from its cause, not necessarily but freely, and so, that another 
event might have arisen from the same cause, in the same cir- 
cumstances 

The second proposition of the argument is, that a contingent 
event does not depend upon any previous known circumstances, 
which I take to be only a variation of the term of not arising 
from what does exist. Therefore, in order to make the two 
propositions to correspond, we must understand by arising from 
what does exist, arising necessarily from what does exist. When 
this ambiguity is removed, the argument stands thus : nothing 
can be known to arise necessarily from what does exist, but what 
does necessarily arise from it : but a contingent event does not 
arise necessarily from what does exist ; therefore a contingent 
event cannot be known to arise necessarily from what does exist. 

I grant the whole ; but the conclusion of this argument is not 
what he undertook to prove, and therefore the argument is that 
kind of sophism which logicians call ignoratio elenchi. 

The thing to be proved is not, that a contingent event cannot 
be known to arise necessarily from what exists ; but that a con- 
tingent future event cannot be the object of knowledge. 

To draw the argument to this conclusion, it must be put thus : 
nothing can be known to arise from what does exist, but what 
arises necessarily from it : but a contingent event does not arise 
necessarily from what does exist ; therefore a contingent event 
cannot be known to arise from what does exist. 

The conclusion here is what it ought to be ; but the first pro- 
position assumes the thing to be proved, and therefore the argu- 
ment is what logicians call petitio principii. 

To the same purpose he says, " That nothing can be known at 
present, except itself or its necessary cause exist at present." 

This is affirmed, but I find no proof of it. 



OF ARGUMENTS FOR NECESSITY. gQJ 

Again he says, " That knowledge supposes an object, which, 
in this case, does not exist." It is true that knowledge supposes 
an object, and every thing that is known is an object of know- 
ledge, whether past, present, or future, whether contingent or 
necessary. 

Upon the whole, the arguments I can find upon this point, 
bear no proportion to the confidence of the assertion, that there 
cannot be a greater absurdity or contradiction, than that a con- 
tingent event should be the object of knowledge. 

IV. To those who, without pretending to show a manifest 
absurdity or contradiction in the knowledge of future contingent 
events, are still of opinion, that it is impossible that the future 
free actions of man, a being of imperfect wisdom and virtue, 
should be certainly foreknown, I would humbly offer the follow- 
ing considerations. 

[1. I grant that there is no knowledge of this kind in man ; and 
this is the cause that we find it so difficult to conceive it in any 
other being.] 

All our knowledge of future events is drawn either from their 
necessary connexion with the present course of nature, or from 
their connexion with the character of the agent that produces 
them. Our knowledge, even of those future events that neces- 
sarily result from the established laws of nature, is hypothetical. 
It supposes the continuance of those laws with which they are 
connected. And how long those laws may be continued, we 
have no certain knowledge. God only knows when the present 
course of nature shall be changed, and therefore he only has 
certain knowledge even of events of this kind. 

The character of perfect wisdom and perfect rectitude in the 
Deity, gives us certain knowledge that he will always be true in 
all his declarations, faithful in all his promises, and just in all 
his dispensations. But [when we reason from the character of 
men to their future actions, though, in many cases, we have such 
probability as we rest upon in our most important worldly con- 
cerns, yet we have no certainty, because men are imperfect in 
wisdom and in virtue.] If we had even the most perfect know- 
ledge of the character and situation of a man, this would not 
be sufficient fro give certainty to our knowledge of his future 
actions ; because, in some actions, both good and bad men deviate 
from their general character. 

The prescience of the Deity, therefore, must be different not 
only in degree, but in kind, from any knowledge we can attain of 
futurity. 

[2. Though we can have no conception how the future free 
actions of men may be known by the Deity, this is not a sufficient 
reason to conclude that they cannot be known.] Do we know, 
or can we conceive, how God knows the secrets of men's hearts ? 
Can we conceive how God made this world without any pre- 



302 ESSAY IV. CHAP. X. 

existent matter ? All the ancient philosophers believed this to 
be impossible : and for what reason but this, that they could 
not conceive how it could be done. Can we give any better 
reason for believing that the actions of men cannot be certainly 
foreseen ? 

[3. Can we conceive how we ourselves have certain knowledge 
by those faculties with which God has endowed us ? If any man 
thinks that he understands distinctly how he is conscious of his 
own thoughts ; how he perceives external objects by his senses ; 
how he remembers past events, I am afraid that he is not yet so 
wise as to understand his own ignorance.] 

[4. There seems to me to be a great analogy between the 
prescience of future contingents, and the memory of past con- 
tingents. We possess the last in some degree, and therefore find 
no difficulty in believing that it may be perfect in the Deity. 
But the first we have in no degree, and therefore are apt to think 
it impossible.] 

[In both, the object of knowledge is neither what presently 
exists, nor has any necessary connexion with what presently exists. 
Every argument brought to prove the impossibility of prescience, 
proves, with equal force, the impossibility of memory .] If it 
be true that nothing can be known to arise from what does exist, 
but what necessarily arises from it, it must be equally true, that 
nothing can be known to have gone before what does exist, but 
what must necessarily have gone before it. If it be true that 
nothing future can be known unless its necessary cause exist at 
present, it must be equally, true that nothing past can be known 
unless something consequent, with which it is necessarily con- 
nected, exist at present. If the fatalist should say, that past 
events are indeed necessarily connected with the present, he will 
not surely venture to say that it is by tracing this necessary con- 
nexion that we remember the past. 

Why, then, should we think prescience impossible in the Al- 
mighty, when he has given us a faculty which bears a strong an- 
alogy to it, and which is no less unaccountable to the human 
understanding than prescience is. It is more reasonable, as well 
as more agreeable to the sacred writings, to conclude with a 
pious father of the church, " Quocirca nullo modo cogimur, aut 
retenta praescientia Dei tollere voluntatis arbitrium, aut retento 
voluntatis arbitrio, Deum, quod nefas est, negare praescium fu- 
turorum : sed utrumque amplectimur, utrumque fideliter et ve- 
raciter confitemur : illud ut bene credamus ; hoc ut bene viva- 
mus." — Aug. " Wherefore we are under no necessity of rejecting 
the freedom of the will, in case we admit the prescience of the 
Deity, or in case we admit the freedom of the will to fall into 
the impiety of denying such prescience : on the contrary, we 
acknowledge both points — one as essential to the soundness of our 
faith, the other to righteousness of life." 



OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 303 

CHAPTER XI. 

OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 

I. Another use has been made of Divine prescience by the 
advocates for necessity, which it is proper to consider before we 
leave this subject. 

It has been said, " that all those consequences follow from 
the Divine prescience which are thought most alarming in the 
scheme of necessity ; and particularly God's being the proper 
cause of moral evil. For, to suppose God to foresee and permit 
what it was in his power to have prevented, is the very same 
thing as to suppose him to will, and directly to cause it. He 
distinctly foresees all the actions of a man's life, and all the con- 
sequences of them. If, therefore, he did not think any parti- 
cular man and his conduct proper for his plan of creation and 
providence, he certainly would not have introduced him into 
being at all." 

In this reasoning we may observe, that a supposition is made 
which seems to contradict itself. 

That all the actions of a particular man should be distinctly 
foreseen, and, at the same time, that that man should never be 
brought into existence, seems to me to be a contradiction : and 
the same contradiction there is, in supposing any action to be 
distinctly foreseen, and yet prevented. For, if it be foreseen, 
it shall happen ; and, if it be prevented, it shall not happen ; 
and therefore could not be foreseen. 

II. [Scientia media. — The knowledge here supposed is neither 
prescience nor science, but something very different from both. 
It is a kind of knowledge which some metaphysical divines, in 
their controversies about the order of the Divine decrees, a sub- 
ject far beyond the limits of human understanding, attributed to 
the Deity, and of which other divines denied the possibility, 
while they firmly maintained the Divine prescience.] 

It was called scientia media, to distinguish it from prescience ; 
and by this scientia media was meant, not the knowing from 
eternity all things that shall exist, which is prescience, [nor the 
knowing all the connexions and relations of things that exist or 
may be conceived, which is science ;] but a knowledge of things 
contingent, that never did nor shall exist. For instance, the 
knowing every action that would be done by a man who is barely 
conceived, and shall never be brought into existence. 

Against the possibility of the scientia media arguments may be 
urged, which cannot be applied to prescience. Thus it may be 
said, that nothing can be known but what is true. It is true 



304 ESSAY IV. CHAP. XI. 

that the future actions of a free agent shall exist, and therefore 
we see no impossibility in its being known that they shall ex- 
ist : but with regard to the free actions of an agent that never 
did nor shall exist, there is nothing true, and therefore nothing 
can be known. To say that the being conceived, would certainly 
act in such a way, if placed in such a situation, if it have any 
meaning, is to say, That his acting in that way is the conse- 
quence of the conception ; but this contradicts the supposition of 
its being a free action. 

Things merely conceived have no relations or connexions but 
such as are implied in the conception, or are consequent from 
it. Thus I conceive two circles in the same plane. If this be 
all I conceive, it is not true that these circles are equal or un- 
equal, [because neither of these relations is implied in the con- 
ception; yet if the two circles really existed, they must be 
either equal or unequal.] Again, I conceive two circles in the 
same plane, the distance of whose centres is equal to the sum of 
their semidiameters. It is true of these circles, that they will 
touch one another, because this follows from the conception ; 
but it is not true that they will be equal or unequal, because 
neither of these relations is implied in the conception, nor is 
consequent from it. 

In like manner, I can conceive a being who has power to do 
an indifferent action, or not to do it. It is not true that he 
would do it, nor is it true that he would not do it, because nei- 
ther is implied in my conception, nor follows from it ; and what 
is not true cannot be known. 

Though I do not perceive .any fallacy in this argument against 
a scientia media, I am sensible how apt we are to err in apply- 
ing what belongs to our conceptions and our knowledge, to the 
conceptions and knowledge of the Supreme Being : and, there- 
fore, without pretending to determine for or against a scientia 
media, I only observe, that, to suppose that the Deity prevents 
what he foresees by his prescience, is a contradiction, and that 
to know that a contingent event which he sees fit not to permit 
would certainly happen if permitted, is not prescience, but the 
scientia media, whose existence or possibility we are under no 
necessity of admitting. 

III. Prescience of the Deity indisputable. — Waving all dis- 
pute about scientia media, we acknowledge that nothing can hap- 
pen under the administration of the Deity, which he does not 
see fit to permit. The permission of natural and moral evil is a 
phenomenon which cannot be disputed. To account for this phe- 
nomenon under the government of a Being of infinite goodness, 
justice, wisdom, and power, has, in all ages, been considered as 
difficult to human reason, whether we embrace the system of 
liberty, or that of necessity. [But if the difficulty of account- 



OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 305 

ing for this phenomenon upon the system of necessity, be as great 
as it is upon the system of liberty, it can have no weight when 
used as an argument against liberty.] 

The defenders of necessity, to reconcile it to the principles of 
Theism, find themselves obliged to give up all the moral attri- 
butes of God, excepting that of goodness, or a desire to produce 
happiness. This they hold to be the sole motive of his making 
and governing the universe. Justice, veracity, faithfulness, are 
only modifications of goodness, the means of promoting its pur- 
poses, and are exercised only so far as they serve that end. Vir- 
tue is acceptable to him, and vice displeasing, only as the first 
tends to produce happiness and the last misery. He is the pro- 
per cause and agent of all moral evil as well as good ; but it is 
for a good end, to produce the greater happiness to his crea- 
tures. He does evil that good may come, and this end sancti- 
fies the worst actions that contribute to it. All the wickedness 
of men being the work of God, he must, when he surveys it, 
pronounce it, as well as all his other works, to be very good. 

[This view of the Divine nature, the only one consistent with 
the scheme of necessity, appears to me much more shocking than 
the permission of evil upon the scheme of liberty. It is said, 
that it requires only strength of mind to embrace it : to me it seems 
to require much strength of countenance to profess it.] 

EST In this system, as in Cleanthe's " Tablature of the Epicu- 
rean System," pleasure or happiness is placed upon the throne 
as the queen, to whom all the virtues bear the humble office of 
menial servants. 

As the end of the Deity, in all his actions, is not his own 
good, which can receive no addition, but the good of his crea- 
tures; and, as his creatures are capable of this disposition in 
some degree, is he not pleased with this image of himself in his 
creatures, and displeased with the contrary ? Why, then, should 
he be the author of malice, envy, revenge, tyranny and oppres- 
sion, in their hearts ? Other vices that have no malevolence in 
them may please such a Deity, but surely malevolence cannot 
please him. 

If we form our .notions of the moral attributes of the Deity 
from what we see of his government of the world, from the dic- 
tates of reason and conscience, or from the doctrine of revelation ; 
justice, veracity, faithfulness, the love of virtue and dislike of 
vice, appear to be no less essential attributes of his nature and 
goodness. 

In man, who is made after the image of God, goodness or be- 
nevolence is indeed an essential part of virtue, but it is not the 
whole. 

I am at a loss what arguments can be brought to prove good- 
ness to be essential to the Deity, which will not, with equal 



306 ESSAY IV. CHAP. XL 

force, prove other moral attributes to be so ; or what objections 
can be brought against the latter, which have not equal strength 
against the former, unless it be admitted to be an objection 
against other moral attributes, that they do not accord with the 
doctrine of necessity. 

If other moral evils may be attributed to the Deity as the 
means of promoting general good, why may not false declara- 
tions and false promises ? And then what ground have we left 
to believe the truth of what he reveals, or to rely upon what he 
promises ? 

Supposing this strange view of the Divine nature were to be 
adopted in favour of the doctrine of necessity, there is still a 
great difficulty to be resolved. 

Since it is supposed that the Supreme Being had no other end 
in making and governing the universe, but to produce the great- 
est degree of happiness to his creatures in general, how comes 
it to pass that there is so much misery in a system made and go- 
verned by infinite wisdom and power for a contrary purpose ? 

IV. The solution of this difficulty leads us necessarily to an- 
other hypothesis, That all the misery and vice that is in the world 
is a necessary ingredient in that system which produces the great- 
est sum of happiness upon the whole. This connexion betwixt 
the greatest sum of happiness and all the misery that is in the 
universe, must be fatal and necessary in the nature of things, so 
that even Almighty power cannot break it : for benevolence can 
never lead to inflict misery without necessity. 

This necessary connexion between the greatest sum of happi- 
ness upon the whole, and all the natural and moral evil that is, 
or has been, or shall be, being once established, it is impossible 
for mortal eyes to discern how far this evil may extend, or on 
whom it may happen to fall ; whether this fatal connexion may 
be temporary or eternal, or what proportion of the happiness 
may be balanced by it. 

A world made by perfect wisdom and almighty power, for 
no other end but to make it happy, presents the most pleasing- 
prospect that can be imagined. We expect nothing but unin- 
terrupted happiness to prevail for ever. But, alas ! when we 
consider that in this happiest system, there must be necessarily 
all the misery and vice we see, and how much more we know 
not, how is the prospect darkened! 

[These two hypotheses, the one limiting the moral character 
of the Deity, the other limiting his power, seem to me to be 
the necessary consequences of necessity, when it is joined with 
Theism ; and they have accordingly been adopted by the ablest 
defenders of that doctrine.] 

If some defenders of liberty, by limiting too rashly the Divine 
prescience, in order to defend that system, have raised high 



OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. gQ* 

indignation in their opponents ; have they not equal ground of 
indignation against those who, to defend necessity, limit the 
moral perfection of the Deity, and his almighty power ? 

V. [Let us consider, on the other hand, what consequences 
may be fairly drawn from God's permitting the abuse of liberty 
in agents on whom he has bestowed it.~\ 

If it be asked, Why does God permit so much sin in his crea- 
tion ? I confess I cannot answer the question, but must lay my 
hand upon my mouth. He giveth no account of his conduct to 
the children of men. It is our part to obey his commands, and 
not to say unto him, Why dost thou thus ? 

Hypotheses might be framed ; but while we have ground to 
be satisfied that he does nothing but what is right, it is more 
becoming us to acknowledge that the ends and reasons of his 
universal government are beyond our knowledge, and perhaps 
beyond the comprehension of human understanding. We can- 
not penetrate so far into the counsel of the Almighty, as to know 
all the reasons why it became him, of whom are all things, and 
to whom are all things, to create, not only machines, which are 
solely moved by his hand, but servants and children, who, by 
obeying his commands, and imitating his moral perfections, 
might rise to a high degree of glory and happiness in his favour, 
or, by perverse disobedience, might incur guilt and just punish- 
ment, fin this he appears to us awful in his justice, as well as 
amiable in his goodness. \ 

But, as he disdains not to appeal to men for the equity of his 
proceedings towards them when his character is impeached, we 
may, with humble reverence, plead for God, and vindicate that 
moral excellence which is the glory of his nature, and of which 
the image is the glory and the perfection of man. 

Let us observe, first of all, that to permit hath two meanings. 
It signifies, not to forbid ; and it signifies, not to hinder by superior 
power. In the first of these senses, God never jiermits sin. His 
law forbids every moral evil. By his laws and by his govern- 
ment, he gives every encouragement to good conduct, and every 
discouragement to bad. But he does not always, by his superior 
power, hinder it from being committed. This is the ground of 
the accusation ; and this, it is said, is the very same thing as 
directly to will and to cause it. 

As this is asserted without proof, and is far from being self- 
evident, it might be sufficient to deny it until it be proved. But, 
without resting barely on the defensive, we may observe, that 
the only moral attributes that can be supposed inconsistent with 
the permission of sin, are either goodness or justice. 

The defenders of necessity, with whom we have to do in this 
point, as they maintain that goodness is the only essential moral 
attribute of the Deity, and the motive of all his actions, must, if 

x 2 



208 ESSAY IV. CHAP. XI. 

they will be consistent, maintain, That to will, and directly to 
cause sin, much more not to hinder it, is consistent with perfect 
goodness, nay, that goodness is a sufficient motive to justify the 
willing and directly causing it. 

With regard to them, therefore, it is surely unnecessary to 
attempt to reconcile the permission of sin with the goodness of 
God, since an inconsistency between that attribute and the caus- 
ing of sin would overturn their whole system. 

If the causing of moral evil, and being the real author of it, 
be consistent with perfect goodness, what pretence can there be 
to say, that not to hinder it is inconsistent with perfect good- 



ness 



[What is incumbent upon them, therefore, to prove is, " That 
the permission of sin is inconsistent with justice ;" and, upon this 
point, we are ready to join issue with them.] 

But what pretence can there be to say, that the permission of 
sin is perfectly consistent with goodness in the Deity, but incon- 
sistent with justice ? 

Is it not as easy to conceive, that he should permit sin, though 
virtue be his delight, as that he inflicts misery, when his sole 
delight is to bestow happiness ? Should it appear incredible, that 
the permission of sin may tend to promote virtue, to them who 
believe that the infliction of misery is necessary to promote 
happiness ? 

The justice, as well as the goodness of God's moral govern- 
ment of mankind, appears in this : That his laws are not arbitrary 
nor grievous, as it is only by the obedience of them that our 
( nature can be perfected and qualified for future happiness ; that 
he is ready to aid our weakness, to help our infirmities, and not 
to suffer us to be tempted above what we are able to bear ; that 
he is not strict to mark iniquity, or to execute judgment speedily 
against an evil work, but is long-suffering, and waits to be gra- 
cious ; £that he is ready to receive the humble penitent to his 
favour ;^that he is no respecter of persons, but in every nation 
he that fears God and works righteousness is accepted of him ; \ 
that of every man he will require an account, proportioned to the 
talents he hath received ; that he delights in mercy, but hath no 
pleasure in the death of the wicked ; and therefore in punishing 
will never go beyond the demerit of the criminal, nor beyond 
what the rules of his universal government require. 

There were, in ancient ages, some who said, " The way of the 
Lord is not equal ; " to whom the prophet, in the name of God, 
makes this reply, which, in all ages, is sufficient to repel this 
accusation : " Hear now, O house of Israel, Is not my way 
equal ? are not your ways unequal ? When a righteous man 
turncth away from his righteousness, and commit teth iniquity, 
for his iniquity which he hath done, shall he die." Again, when 



OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 3QQ 

the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath 
committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he* shall save 
his soul alive. O house of Israel, are not my ways equal ? are 
not your ways unequal ? Repent, and turn from all your trans- 
gressions ; so iniquity shall not be your ruin. Cast away from 
you all your transgressions, whereby ye have transgressed, and 
make you a new heart, and a new spirit : for why will ye die, O 
house of Israel ? For I have no pleasure in the death of him 
that dieth, saith the Lord God." 

VI. Another argument for necessity has been lately offered, 
which we shall very briefly consider. 

[It has been maintained, that the power of thinking is the re- 
sult of a certain modification of matter, and that a certain con- 
figuration of brain makes a soul ; and, if man be wholly a mate- 
rial being, it is said that it will not be denied that he must be 
a mechanical being; that the doctrine of necessity is a direct 
inference from that of materialism, and its undoubted conse- 
quence.] 

As this argument can have no weight with those who do not 
see reason to embrace this system of materialism ; so, even with 
those who do, it seems to me to be a mere sophism. 

Philosophers have been wont to conceive matter to be an inert 
passive being, and to have certain properties inconsistent with 
the power of thinking or of acting. But a philosopher arises, 
who proves, we shall suppose, that we were quite mistaken in 
our notion of matter ; that it has not the properties we supposed, 
and, in fact, has no properties but those of attraction and repul- 
sion ; but still he thinks that, being matter, it will not be denied 
that it is a mechanical being, and that the doctrine of necessity 
is a direct inference from that of materialism. 

Herein, however, he deceives himself. If matter be what we 
conceived it to be, it is equally incapable of thinking and of acting 
freely. But if the properties, from which we drew this conclu- 
sion, have no reality, as he thinks he has proved ; if it have the 
powers of attraction and repulsion, and require only a certain 
configuration to make it think rationally, it will be impossible to 
show any good reason why the same configuration may not make 
it act rationally and freely. If its reproach of solidity, inert- 
ness, and sluggishness, be wiped off; and if it be raised in our 
esteem to a nearer approach to the nature of what we call spirit- 
ual and immaterial beings, why should it still be nothing but 
a mechanical being ? Is its solidity, inertness, and sluggishness, 
to be first removed to make it capable of thinking, and then re- 
stored in order to make it incapable of acting ? 

[Those, therefore, who reason justly from this system of ma- 
terialism will easily perceive that the doctrine of necessity is so 
far from being a direct inference, that it can receive no support 
from it^\ 



310 ESSAY IV. CHAP. XI. 

VII. To conclude this Essay : Extremes of all kinds ought 
to be avoided ; yet men are prone to run into them ; and, to 
shun one extreme, we often run into the contrary. 

Of all extremes of opinion, none are more dangerous than 
those that exalt the powers of man too high, on the one hand, 
or sink them too low, on the other. 

By raising them too high, we feed pride and vainglory, we 
lose the sense of our dependence upon God and engage in at- 
tempts beyond our abilities. By depressing them too low, we 
cut the sinews of action and of obligation, and are tempted to 
think that, as we can do nothing, we have nothing to do but to 
be carried passively along by the stream of necessity. 

Some good men, apprehending that, to kill pride and vain- 
glory, our active powers cannot be too much depressed, have 
been led, by zeal for religion, to deprive us of all active power. 
Other good men, by a like zeal, have been led to depreciate 
the human understanding, and to put out the light of nature 
and reason, in order to exalt that of revelation. 

Those weapons which were taken up in support of religion, 
are now employed to overturn it ; and what was, by some, ac- 
counted the bulwark of orthodoxy, is become the stronghold of 
atheism and infidelity. 

[Atheists join hands with theologians, (1) in depriving man 
of all active power, that they may destroy all moral obligation, and 
all sense of right and wrong. They join hands with theologi- 
ans, (2) in depreciating the human understanding, that they may 
lead us into absolute scepticism.] 

God, in mercy to the human race, has made us of such a 
frame, that no speculative opinion whatsoever can root out the 
sense of guilt and demerit when we do wrong, nor the peace and 
joy of a good conscience when we do what is right. \ No specu- 
lative opinion can root out a regard to the testimony of our 
senses, of our memory, and of our rational faculties. But we 
have reason to be jealous of opinions which run counter to those 
natural sentiments of the human mind, and tend to shake, though 
they never can eradicate them. 

There is little reason to fear, that the conduct of men, with 
regard to the concerns of the present life, will ever be much 
affected, either by the doctrine of necessity, or by scepticism. It 
were to be wished that men's conduct, with regard to the con- 
cerns of another life, were in as little danger from those opinions. 
In the present state, we see some who zealously maintain the 
doctrine of necessity, others who as zealously maintain that of 
liberty. One would be apt to think that a practical belief of these 
contrary systems should produce very different conduct in them 
that hold them ; yet we see no such difference in the affairs of 
common life. 



OF THE PERMISSION OF EVIL. 3JJ 

The fatalist deliberates, and resolves, and plights his faith. 
He lays down a plan of conduct, and prosecutes it with vigour 
and industry. He exhorts and commands, and holds those to be 
answerable for their conduct to whom he hath committed any 
charge. He blames those that are false or unfaithful to him, as 
other men do. He perceives dignity and worth in some charac- 
ters and actions, and in others demerit and turpitude. He re- 
sents injuries, and is grateful for good offices. 

If any man should plead the doctrine of necessity to exculpate 
murder, theft, or robbery, or even wilful negligence in the dis- 
charge of his duty, his judge, though a fatalist, if he had com- 
mon sense, would laugh at such a plea, and would not allow it 
even to alleviate the crime. 

In all such cases, he sees that it would be absurd not to act 
and to judge as those ought to do who believe themselves and 
other men to be free agents — just as the sceptic, to avoid absur- 
dity, must, when he goes into the world, act and judge like 
other men who are not sceptics. 

If the fatalist be as little influenced by the opinion of neces- 
sity in his moral and religious concerns, and in his expectations 
concerning another world, as he is in the common affairs of life, his 
speculative opinion will probably do him little hurt. But, if he 
trust so far to the doctrine of necessity, as to indulge sloth and 
inactivity in his duty, and hope to exculpate himself to his 
JVIaker by that doctrine, let him consider whether he sustains this 
j excuse from his servants and dependants, when they are.negli- 
j gent or unfaithful in what is committed to their charge.,,/ 
\ Bishop Butler, in his " Analogy," has an excellent chapter 
upon the opinion of necessity considered as influencing practice, 
which I think highly deserving the consideration of those who 
are inclined to that opinion.* 

* " Analogy of Religion, Natural and Revealed, to the Constitution and 
Course of Nature," Part I. chap. vi. 



ESSAY V. 

OF MORALS. 

CHAPTER I. 

OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. 

I. Morals, like all other sciences, must have first principles, 
on which all moral reasoning is grounded. 

In every branch of knowledge where disputes have been raised, 
it is useful to distinguish the first principles from the super- 
structure. They are the foundation on which the whole fabric 
of the science leans ; and whatever is not supported by this 
foundation can have no stability. 

[In all rational belief, the thing believed is (1) either itself a 
first principle, or (2) it is by just reasoning deduced from first 
principles.] When men differ about deductions of reasoning, 
the appeal must be made to the rules of reasoning, which have 
been very unanimously fixed from the days of Aristotle. But 
when they differ about a first principle, the appeal is made to 
another tribunal ; to that of common sense. 

How the genuine decisions of common sense may be distin- 
guished from the counterfeit, has been considered in Essay VI. 
on " The Intellectual Powers of Man," chapter fourth, to which 
the reader is referred. What I would here observe is, that as 
first principles differ from deductions of reasoning in the nature 
of their evidence, and must be tried by a different standard 
when they are called in question, it is of importance to know to 
which of these two classes a truth, which we would examine, 
belongs. When they are not distinguished, men are apt to 
demand proof for every thing they think fit to deny : and when 
we attempt to prove by direct argument, what is really self- 
evident, the reasoning will always be inconclusive : for it will 
either take for granted the thing to be proved, or something not 
more evident ; and so, instead of giving strength to the conclu- 
sion, will rather tempt those to doubt of it, who never did so 
before. 

II. I propose, therefore, in this chapter, to point out some of 
the first principles of morals, without pretending to a complete 
enumeration. 



OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. gjg 

The principles I am to mention, relate either to virtue in 
general, or to the different particular branches of virtue, or to 
the comparison of virtues where they seem to interfere. 

1 . There are some things in human conduct, that merit appro- 
bation and praise, others that merit blame and punishment ; and 
different degrees either of approbation or of blame, are due to 
different actions. 

2. What is in no degree voluntary, can neither deserve moral 
approbation nor blame. 

3. What is done from unavoidable necessity may be agreeable 
or disagreeable, useful or hurtful, but cannot be the object 
either of blame or of moral approbation. 

4. Men may be highly culpable in omitting what they ought 
to have done, as well as in doing what they ought not. 

5. We ought to use the best means we can to be well informed 
of our duty, by serious attention to moral instruction ; by ob- 
serving what we approve, and what we disapprove, in other men, 
whether our acquaintance, or those whose actions are recorded 
in history ; by reflecting often, in a calm and dispassionate hour, 
on our own past conduct, that we may discern what was wrong, 
what was right, and what might have been better; by deli- 
berating coolly and impartially upon our future conduct, as far 
as we can foresee the opportunities we may have of doing good, 
or the temptations to do wrong ; and by having this principle 
deeply fixed in our minds, that as moral excellence is the true 
worth and glory of a man, so the knowledge of our duty is to 

| every man, in every station of life, the most important of all 
knowledge. 

6. It ought to be our most serious concern to do our duty as 
far as we know it, and to fortify our minds against every tempta- 
tion to deviate from it; by maintaining a lively sense of the 
beauty of right conduct, and of its present and future reward, of 
the turpitude of vice, and of its bad consequences here and here- 
after ; by having always in our eye the noblest examples; /by 
the habit of subjecting our passions to the government of rea- 
son ;Jby firm purposes and resolutions with regard to our con- 
duct ; by avoiding occasions of temptation when we can ; and 
by imploring the aid of Him who made us, in every hour of 
temptation. 

III. These principles concerning virtue and vice in general, 
must appear self-evident to every man who hath a conscience, 
and who hath taken pains to exercise this natural power of his 
mind. I proceed to others that are more particular. 

1. We ought to prefer a greater good, though more distant, 
to a less ; and a less evil to a greater. 

A regard to our own good, though we had no conscience, 
dictates this principle ; and we cannot help disapproving the 






314 ESSAY V. CHAP. I. 

man that acts contrary to it, as deserving to lose the good which 
he wantonly threw away, and to suffer the evil which he know- 
ingly brought upon his own head. 

We observed before, that the ancient moralists, and many 
among the modern, have deduced the whole of morals from this 
principle, and that when we make a right estimate of goods and 
evils according to their degree, their dignity, their duration, 
and according as they are more or less in our power, it leads to 
the practice of every virtue : more directly, indeed, to the virtues 
of self-government, to prudence, to temperance, and to fortitude ; 
and, though more indirectly, even to justice, humanity, and all 
the social virtues, when their influence upon our happiness is 
well understood. 

Though it be not the noblest principle of conduct, it has this 
peculiar advantage, that its force is felt by the most ignorant, 
and even by the most abandoned. 

Let a man's moral judgment be ever so little improved by 
exercise, or ever so much corrupted by bad habits, he cannot be 
indifferent to his own happiness or misery. When he is become 
insensible to every nobler motive to right conduct, he cannot be 
insensible to this. And though to act from this motive solely 
may be called prudence rather than virtue, yet this prudence 
deserves some regard upon its own account, and much more as 
it is the friend and ally of virtue, and the enemy of all vice ; and 
as it gives a favourable testimony of virtue to those who are 
deaf to every other recommendation. 

[If a man can be induced to do his duty even from a regard 
to his own happiness, he will soon find reason to love virtue for 
her own sake, and to act from motives less mercenary .] 

I cannot therefore approve of those moralists who would 
banish all persuasives to virtue taken from the consideration of 
private good. In the present state of human nature these are 
not useless to the best, and they are the only means left of re- 
claiming the abandoned. 

2. As far as the intention of nature appears in the constitution 
of man, we ought to comply with that intention, and to act 
agreeably to it. 

The Author of our being hath given us not only the power of 
acting within a limited sphere, but various principles or springs 
of action, of different nature and dignity, to direct us in the 
exercise of our active power. 

From the constitution of every species of the inferior animals, 
and especially from the active principles which nature has given 
them, we easily perceive the manner of life for which nature 
intended them ; and they uniformly act the part to which they 
are led by their constitution, without any reflection upon it, or 
intention of obeying its dictates. Man only, of the inhabitants 



OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. 315 

of this world, is made capable of observing his own constitution, 
what kind of life it is made for, and of acting according to that 
intention, or contrary to it. He only is capable of yielding an 
intentional obedience to the dictates of his nature, or of rebelling 
against them. 

In treating of the principles of action in man, it has been 
shown, that as his natural instincts and bodily appetites are well 
adapted to the preservation of his natural life, and to the con- 
tinuance of the species ; so his natural desires, affections, and 
passions, when uncorrupted by vicious habits, and under the 
[government of the leading principles of reason and conscience, 
lare excellently fitted for the rational and social life. Every 
vicious action shows an excess, or defect, or wrong direction of 
some natural spring of action, and therefore may, very justly, 
be said to be unnatural, j Every virtuous action agrees with the 
uncorrupted principles 01 human nature. 

The Stoics denned virtue to be a life according to nature. 
Some of them, more accurately, a life according to the nature of 
man, in so far as it is superior to that of brutes. The life of a 
brute is according to the nature of the brute ; but it is neither 
virtuous nor vicious. The life of a moral agent cannot be accord- 
ing to his nature, unless it be virtuous. / That conscience, which 
is in every man's breast, is the law of God written in his heart, 
which he cannot disobey without acting unnaturally, and being 
self-condemned. ) 

The intention of nature, in the various active principles of 
man, in the desires of power, of knowledge, and of esteem, in 
the affection to children, to near relations, and to the communi- 
ties to which we belong, in gratitude, in compassion, and even 
in resentment and emulation, is very obvious, and has been 
pointed out in treating of those principles. Nor is it less evi- 
dent, that reason and conscience are given us to regulate the 
inferior principles, so that they may conspire, in a regular and 
consistent plan of life, in pursuit of some worthy end. 

3£ No man is born for himself only. \ Every man, therefore, 
ought to consider himself as a member of the common society 
of mankind, and of those subordinate societies to which he 
belongs, such as family, friends, neighbourhood, country, and 
to do as much good as he can, and as little hurt to the societies 
of which he is a part._y 

[This axiom leads directly to the practice of every social vir- 
tue, and indirectly to the virtues of self-government, by which 
only we can be qualified for discharging the duty we owe to 
society.] 

4. In every case, we ought to act that part towards another, 

which we would judge to be right in him to act towards us, if 

\we were in his circumstances and he in ours ; or, more generally, 



316 ESSAY V. CHAP. I. 

what we approve in others, that we ought to practise in like 
circumstances ; x and what we condemn in others, we ought not 
to do. 

If there be any such thing as right and wrong in the conduct 
of moral agents, it must be the same to all in the same circum- 
stances. 

We stand all in the same relation to Him who made us, and 
will call us to account for our conduct ; for with Him there is 
no respect of persons. We stand in the same relation to one 
another as members of the great community of mankind. The 
duties consequent upon the different ranks and offices and rela- 
tions of men are the same to all in the same circumstances. 

[It is not want of judgment, but want of candour and impar- 
tiality, that hinders men from discerning what they owe to 
others.] They are quicksighted enough in discerning what is 
due to themselves. =„ When they are injured, or ill treated, they 
see it, and feel resentment. It is the want of canclour that 
makes men use one measure for the duty they owe to others, 
and another measure for the duty that others owe to them in 
like circumstances. That men ought to judge with candour, as 
in all other cases, so especially in what concerns their moral 
conduct, is surely self-evident to every intelligent being. The 
man who takes offence when he is injured in his person, in his 
property, in his good name, pronounces judgment against himself 
if he act so toward his neighbour. 

[As the equity and obligation of this rule of conduct is self- 
evident to every man who hath a conscience ; so it is, of all the 
rules of morality, the most comprehensive, and truly deserves the 
encomium given it by the highest authority, that it is the law 
and the prophets.] 

It comprehends every rule of justice without exception. It 
comprehends all the relative duties, arising either from the more 
permanent relations of parent and child, of master and servant, 
of magistrate and subject, of husband and wife, or from the 
more transient relations of rich and poor, of buyer and seller, of 
debtor and creditor, of benefactor and beneficiary, of friend and 
enemy. It comprehends every duty of charity and humanity, 
and even of courtesy and good manners. 

Nay, I think that, without any force or straining, it extends 
even to the duties of self-government. For, as every man 
approves in others the virtues of prudence, temperance, self- 
command, and fortitude, he must perceive, that what is right in 
others must be right in himself in like circumstances. 

To sum up all, he who acts invariably by this rule will never 
deviate from the path of his duty but from an error of judgment. 
And, as he feels the obligation that he and all men are under 
to use the best means in his power to have his judgment well 



OF THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF MORALS. 3J7 

informed in matters of duty, his errors will only be such as are 
invincible. 

[It may be observed, that this axiom supposes (1) a faculty 
in man by which he can distinguish right conduct from wrong. 
It supposes also, (2) that, by this faculty, we easily perceive the 
right and the wrong in other men that are indifferent to us ; but 
are very apt to be blinded by the partiality of selfish passions 
when the case concerns ourselves.] Every claim we have against 
others is apt to be magnified by self-love, when viewed directly. 
A change of persons removes this prejudice, and brings the claim 
to appear in its just magnitude. 

5. To every man who believes the existence, the perfections, 
and the providence of God, the veneration and submission we 
owe to him is self-evident. Right sentiments of the Deity and 
of his works, not only make the duty we owe to him obvious to 
every intelligent being, but likewise add the authority of a divine 
law to every rule of right conduct. 

IV. [There is another class of axioms in morals, by which, 
when there seems to be an opposition between the actions that 
different virtues lead to, we determine to which the preference 
is due.] 

Between the several virtues, as they are dispositions of mind, 
or determinations of will to act according to a certain general 
rule, there can be no opposition. They dwell together most 
amicably, and give mutual aid and ornament, without the possi- 
bility of hostility or opposition, and, taken altogether, make one 
uniform and consistent rule of conduct. But, between particular 
external actions, which different virtues would lead to, there 
may be an opposition. Thus, the same man may be in his heart 
generous, grateful, and just. These dispositions strengthen, but 
never can weaken one another. Yet it may happen that an 
external action which generosity or gratitude solicits, justice 
may forbid. 

That in all such cases, unmerited generosity should yield to 
gratitude, and both to justice, is self-evident. Nor is it less so, 
that unmerited beneficence to those who are at ease should yield 
to compassion to the miserable, and external acts of piety to 
works of mercy, because God loves mercy more than sacrifice. 

At the same time, we perceive, that [those acts of virtue which 
ought to yield in the case of a competition, have most intrinsic 
worth when- there is no competition. Thus, it is evident that 
there is more worth in pure and unmerited benevolence than in 
compassion, more in compassion than in gratitude, and more in 
gratitude than in justice.] 

I call these first principles, because they appear to me to have 
in themselves an intuitive evidence which I cannot resist. I find 
I can express them in other words. I can illustrate them by 



318 ESSAY V. CHAP. I. 

examples and authorities, and perhaps can deduce one of them 
from another ; but I am not able to deduce them from other 
principles that are more evident. And I find the best moral 
reasonings of authors I am acquainted with, ancient and modern, 
heathen and Christian, to be grounded upon one or more of 
them. 

The evidence of mathematical axioms is not discerned till men 
come to a certain degree of maturity of understanding. A boy 
must have formed the general conception of quantity, and of 
more and less and equal, of sum and difference; and he must 
have been accustomed to judge of these relations in matters of 
common life, before he can perceive the evidence of the mathe- 
matical axiom, that equal quantities, added to equal quantities, 
make equal sums. 

In like manner, our moral judgment, or conscience, grows to 
maturity from an imperceptible seed, planted by our Creator. 
When we are capable of contemplating the actions of other men, 
or of reflecting upon our own calmly and dispassionately, we 
begin to perceive in them the qualities of honest and dishonest, 
of honourable and base, of right and wrong, and to feel the 
sentiments of- moral approbation and disapprobation. 

These sentiments are at first feeble, easily warped by passions 
and prejudices, and apt to yield to authority. By use and time, 
the judgment, in morals, as in other matters, gathers strength, 
and feels more vigour. We begin to distinguish the dictates of 
passion from those of cool reason, and to perceive that it is not 
always safe to rely upon the judgment of others. By an impulse 
of nature we venture to judge for ourselves, as we venture to 
walk by ourselves. 

fBT There is a strong analogy between the progress of the 
body from infancy to maturity, and the progress of all the 
powers of the mind. This progression in both is the work of 
nature, and in both may be greatly aided or hurt by proper 
education. It is natural to a man to be able to walk or run or 
leap ; but if his limbs had been kept in fetters from his birth, 
he would have none of those powers. It is no less natural to a 
man trained in society, and accustomed to judge of his own 
actions and those of other men, to perceive a right and a wrong, 
an honourable and a base, in human conduct; and to such a 
man, I think, the principles of morals I have above mentioned 
will appear self-evident. Yet there may be individuals of the 
human species so little accustomed to think or judge of any 
thing but of gratifying their animal appetites, as to have hardly 
any conception of right or wrong in conduct, or any moral judg- 
ment ; as there certainly are some who have not the concep- 
tions and the judgment necessary to understand the axioms of 
geometry. 



OF SYSTEMS OF MORALS. 319 

V. Conclusion. — From the principles above mentioned, the 
whole system of moral conduct follows so easily, and with so 
little aid of reasoning, that every man of common understanding 
who wishes to know his duty may know it. The path of duty 
is a plain path, which the upright in heart can rarely mistake. 
Such it must be, since every man is bound to walk in it. There 
are some intricate cases in morals w^hich admit of disputation ; 
but these seldom occur in practice ; and when they do, the 
learned disputant has no great advantage : for the unlearned 
man, who uses the best means in his power to know his duty, 
and acts according to his knowledge, is inculpable in the sight 
of God and man. He may err, but he is not guilty of immo- 
rality. 



CHAPTER II. 

OF SYSTEMS OF MORALS. 



I. Instruction in morals necessary. — If the knowledge of our 
duty be so level to the apprehension of all men, as has been 
represented in the last chapter, it may seem hardly to deserve 
the name of a science. It may seem that there is no need for 
instruction in morals. 

From what cause then has it happened, that we have many 
large and learned systems of moral philosophy, and systems of 
natural jurisprudence, or the law of nature and nations ; and 
that, in modern times, public professions have been instituted in 
most places of education for instructing youth in these branches 
of knowledge ? 

This event, I think, may be accounted for, and the utility of 
such systems and professions justified, without supposing any 
difficulty or intricacy in the knowledge of our duty. 

[I am far from thinking instruction in morals unnecessary. 
Men may, to the end of life, be ignorant of self-evident truths. 
They may, to the end of life, entertain gross absurdities. Expe- 
rience shows that this happens often in matters that are indiffer- 
ent. Much more may it happen in matters where interest, 
passion, prejudice, and fashion, are so apt to pervert the judg- 
ment.] 

The most obvious truths are not perceived without some ripe- 
ness of judgment. For we see that children may be made to 
believe any thing, though ever so absurd. Our judgment of 
things is ripened, not by time only, but chiefly by being exer- 
cised about things of the same or of a similar kind. 

Judgment, even in .things self-evident, requires a clear, dis- 
tinct, and steady conception of the things about which we judge. 



ggO ESSAY V. CHAP. II. 

Our conceptions are at first obscure and wavering. The habit 
of attending to them is necessary to make them distinct and 
steady; and this habit requires an exertion of mind to which 
many of our animal principles are unfriendly. The love of truth 
calls for it ; but its still voice is often drowned by the louder 
call of some passion, or we are hindered from listening to it by 
laziness and desultoriness. Thus men often remain through life 
ignorant of things which they needed but to open their eyes to 
see, and which they would have seen if their attention had been 
turned to them. 

[The most knowing derive the greatest part of their knowledge, 
even in things obvious, from instruction and information, and 
from being taught to exercise their natural faculties, which, 
without instruction, would lie dormant.] 

B§F [I am very apt to think, that, if a man could be reared 
from infancy without any society of his fellow-creatures, he 
would hardly ever show any sign, either of moral judgment, or 
of the power of reasoning. His own actions would be directed 
by his animal appetites and passions, without cool reflection, and 
he would have no access to improve by observing the conduct of 
other beings like himself.] 

The power of vegetation in the seed of a plant, without heat 
and moisture, would for ever lie dormant. The rational and 
moral powers of man would perhaps lie dormant without instruc- 
tion and example. Yet these powers are a part, and the noblest 
part, of his constitution ; as the power of vegetation is of the 
seed. 

Our first moral conceptions are probably got by attending 
coolly to the conduct of others, and observing what moves our 
approbation, what our indignation. These sentiments spring 
from our moral faculty as naturally as the sensations of sweet 
and bitter from the faculty of taste. They have their natural 
objects. But most human actions are of a mixed nature, and 
have various colours, according as they are viewed on different 
sides. Prejudice against, or in favour of the person, is apt to 
warp our opinion. It requires attention and candour to distin- 
guish the good from the ill, and, without favour or prejudice, to 
form a clear and impartial judgment. In this we may be greatly 
aided by instruction. 

He must be very ignorant of human nature, who does not 
perceive that the seed of virtue in the mind of man, like that of 
a tender plant in an unkindly soil, requires care and culture in 
the first period of life, as well as our own exertion when we come 
to maturity. J 

C If the irregularities of passion and appetite be timely checked, 
and good habits planted ; if we be excited by good examples, 
and bad examples be shown in their proper colour ; if the atten- 



OF SYSTEMS OF MORALS. ggj 

tion be prudently directed to the precepts of wisdom and virtue, 
as the mind is capable of receiving them ; a man thus trained 
will rarely be at a loss to distinguish good from ill in his own 
conduct, without the labour of reasoning^ 

II. [The bulk of mankind have but little of this culture in the 
proper season ; and what they have is often unskilfully applied ; 
by which means bad habits gather strength, and false notions of 
pleasure, of honour, and of interest, occupy the mind.] They 
give little attention to what is right and honest. Conscience is 
seldom consulted, and so little exercised, that its decisions are 
weak and wavering. Although, therefore, to a ripe understand- 
ing, free from prejudice, and accustomed to judge of the morality 
of actions, most truths in morals will appear self-evident, it does 
not follow that moral instruction is unnecessary in the first part 
of life, or that it may not be very profitable in its more advanced 
period. 
__JII. Necessity of instruction in morals shown from the evidence 
of history. — The history of past ages shows that nations, highly 
civilized and greatly enlightened in many arts and sciences, 
may, for ages, not only hold the grossest absurdities with regard 
to the Deity and his worship, but with regard to the duty we 
owe to our fellow-men, particularly to children, to servants, to 
strangers, to enemies, and to those who differ from us in religious 
opinions. 

Such corruptions in religion, and in morals, had spread so wide 
among mankind, and were so confirmed by custom, as to require 
a light from heaven to correct them. Revelation was not intended 
to supersede, but to aid the use of our natural faculties ; and I 
doubt not, but the attention given to moral truths, in such systems 
as we have mentioned, has contributed much to correct the errors 
and prejudices of former ages, and may continue to have the 
same good effect in time to come. 

IV. It needs not seem strange, that systems of morals may 
swell to great magnitude, if we consider that, although the 
general principles be few and simple, their application extends 
to every part of human conduct, in every condition, every rela- 
tion, and every transaction of life. [They are the rule of life to 
the magistrate and to the subject, to the master and to the ser- 
vant, to the parent and to the child, to the fellow-citizen and to 
the alien, to the friend and to the enemy, to the buyer and to 
the seller, to the borrower and to the lender. Every human 
creature is subject to their authority in his actions and words, 
and even in his thoughts.] They may, in this respect, be com- 
pared to the laws of motion in the natural world, which, though 
few and simple, serve to regulate an infinite variety of opera- 
tions throughout the universe. 

And as the beauty of the laws of motion is displayed in the 



322 ESSAY V. » CHAP. IL 

most striking manner, when we trace them through all the variety 
of their effects ; so the divine beauty and sanctity of the princi- 
ples of morals, appear most august when we take a comprehen- 
sive view of their application to every condition and relation, 
: and to every transaction of human society. 

This is, or ought to be, the design of systems of morals. They 
may be made more or less extensive, having no limits fixed by 
nature, but the wide circle of human transactions. When the 
principles are applied to these in detail, the detail is pleasant 
and profitable. It requires no profound reasoning, (excepting, 
perhaps, in a few disputable points.) It admits of the most 
agreeable illustration from examples and authorities ; it serves 
to exercise, and thereby to strengthen moral judgment. And 
one who has given much attention to the duty of man, in all 
the various relations and circumstances of life, will probably be 
more enlightened in his own duty, and more able to enlighten 
others. 

V. The first writers in morals, we are acquainted with, deli- 
vered their moral instructions, not in systems, but in short 
unconnected sentences, or aphorisms. They saw no need for 
deductions of reasoning, because the truths they delivered could 
not but be admitted by the candid and attentive. 

Subsequent writers, to improve the way of treating this sub- 
ject, gave method and arrangement to moral truths, by reducing 
them under certain divisions and subdivisions, as parts of one 
whole. By this means the whole is more easily comprehended 
and remembered, and from this arrangement gets the name of a 
system and of a science. 

A system of morals is not like a system of geometry, where 
the subsequent parts derive their evidence from the preceding, 
and one chain of reasoning is carried on from the beginning ; so 
that, if the arrangement is changed, the chain is broken, and the 
evidence is lost. It resembles more a system of botany, or 
mineralogy, where the subsequent parts depend not for their 
evidence upon the preceding, and the arrangement is made to 
facilitate apprehension and memory, and not to give evidence. 

VI. [Morals have been methodized in different ways. The 
ancients commonly arranged them under the four cardinal virtues 
of prudence, temperance, fortitude, and justice. Christian 
writers, I think more properly, under the three heads of the duty 
we owe to God, to ourselves, and to our neighbour. One divi- 
sion may be more comprehensive, or more natural, than another ; 
but the truths arranged are the same, and their evidence the 
same in all.] 

I shall only further observe, with regard to systems of morals, 
that they have been made more voluminous, and more intri- 
cate, partly by mixing political questions with morals, which I 



OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURISPRUDENCE. ggg 

think improper, because they belong to a different science, and 
are grounded on different principles ; partly by making what is 
commonly, but I think improperly, called the " theory of 
morals," a part of the system. 

VII. By the theory of morals is meant a just account of the 
structure of our moral powers ; that is, of those powers of the 
mind by which we have our moral conceptions, and distinguish 
right from wrong in human actions. This, indeed, is an intri- 
cate subject, and there have been various theories and much 
controversy about it in ancient and in modern times. But it 
has little coimexion with the knowledge of our duty ; and those 
who differ most in the theory of our moral powers, agree in the 
practical rules of morals which they dictate. 

As a man may be a good judge of colours, and of the other 
visible qualities of objects, without any knowledge of the ana- 
tomy of the eye, and of the theory of vision ; so a man may 
have a very clear and comprehensive knowledge of what is right 
and what is wrong in human conduct, who never studied the 
structure of our moral powers. 

A good ear in music may be much improved by attention and 
practice in that art ; but very little by studying the anatomy of 
the ear, and the theory of sound. In order to acquire a good 
eye or a good ear in the arts that require them, the theory of 
vision and the theory of sound are by no means necessary, and 
indeed of very little use. Of as little necessity or use is what 
we call the theory of morals, in order to improve our moral 
judgment. 

I mean not to depreciate this branch of knowledge. It is a 
very important part of the philosophy of the human mind, and 
ought to be considered as such, but not as any part of morals. 
By the name we give to it, and by the custom of making it a 
part of every system of morals, men may be led into this gross 
mistake, which I wish to obviate, That in order to understand 
his duty, a man must needs be a philosopher and a metaphysician. 



CHAPTER III. 

OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURISPRUDENCE. 

I. Jurisprudence and morals closely related. — Systems of 
natural jurisprudence, of the rights of peace and war, or of the 
law of nature and nations, are a modern invention, which soon 
acquired such reputation, as gave occasion to many public estab- 
lishments for teaching it along with the other sciences. It has 
so close a relation to morals, that it may answer the purpose of 
a system of morals, and is commonly put in the place of it, as 

y 2 



324 ESSAY V. CHAP. III. 

far, at least, as concerns our duty to our fellow-men. They 
differ in the name and form, but agree in substance. This will 
appear from a slight attention to the nature of both. 

[The direct intention of morals is to teach the duty of men : 
that of natural jurisprudence, to teach the rights of men.] Right 
and duty are things very different, and have even a kind of oppo- 
sition ; yet they are so related, that the one cannot even be con- 
ceived without the other ; and he that understands the one must 
understand the other. 

They have the same relation which credit has to debt. As all 
credit supposes an equivalent debt ; so all right supposes a cor- 
responding duty. There can be no credit in one party without 
an equivalent debt in another party ; and there can be no right 
in one party, without a corresponding duty in another party. 
The sum of credit shows the sum of debt; and the sum of 
men's rights shows, in like manner, the sum of their duty to one 
another. 

II. [The word right has a very different meaning, according as 
it is applied to actions or to persons, A right action is an action 
agreeable to our duty. But when we speak of the rights of men, 
the word has a very different and a more artificial meaning. It 
is a term of art in law, and signifies all that a man may lawfully 
do, all that he may lawfully possess and use, and all that he may 
lawfully claim of any other person.] 

This comprehensive meaning of the word right, and of the 
Latin word jus, which corresponds to it, though long adopted 
into common language, is too artificial to be the birth of common 
language. It is a term of art, contrived by civilians when the 
civil law became a profession. 

The whole end and object of law is to protect the subjects in 
all that they may lawfully do, or possess, or demand. This 
threefold object of law, civilians have comprehended under the 
word jus or right, which they define, " Facultas aliquid agendi, 
vel possidendi, vel ab alio consequendi :" a lawful claim to do any 
thing, to possess any thing, or to demand some prestation from 
some other person. The first of these may be called the right 
of liberty, the second that of property, which is also called a 
real right, the third is called personal right, because it respects 
some particular person or persons of whom the prestation may 
be demanded. 

We can be at no loss to perceive the duties corresponding to 
the several kinds of rights. What I have a right to do, it is the 
duty of all men not to hinder me from doing. What is my 
property or real right, no man ought to take from me ; or to 
molest me in the use and enjoyment of it. And what I have a 
right to demand of any man, it is his duty to perform. Between 
the right, on the one hand, and the duty, on the other, there is 



OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURISPRUDENCE. g£>5 

not only a necessary connexion, but, in reality, they are only 
different expressions of the same meaning ; just as it is the same 
thing to say I am your debtor, and to say you are my creditor ; 
or as it is the same thing to say I am your father, and to say you 
are my son. 

[Thus we see, that there is such a correspondence between the 
rights of men and the duties of men, that the one points out the 
other ; and a system of the one may be substituted for a system 
of the other.] 

III. [But here an objection occurs. It may be said, That 
although every right implies a duty, yet every duty does not 
imply a right.] Thus, it may be my duty to do a humane or 
kind office to a man who has no claim of right to it ; and there- 
fore a system of the rights of men, though it teach all the duties 
of strict justice, yet it leaves out all the duties of charity and 
humanity, without which the system of morals must be very 
lame. 

[In answer to this objection, it may be observed, That, as 
there is a strict notion of justice, in which it is distinguished from 
humanity and charity, so there is a more extensive signification 
of it, in which it includes those virtues.] The ancient moralists, 
both Greek and Roman, under the cardinal virtue of justice, 
included beneficence ; and, in this extensive sense, it is often 
used in common language. The like may be said of right, 
which, in a sense not uncommon, is extended to every proper 
claim of humanity and charity, as well as to the claims of strict 
justice. But, as it is proper to distinguish these two kinds of 
claims by different -names, writers in natural jurisprudence have 
given the name of perfect rights to the claims of strict justice, 
and that of imperfect rights to the claims of charity and 
humanity. Thus, all the duties of humanity have imperfect 
rights corresponding to them, as those of strict justice have per- 
fect rights. 

IV. [Another objection may be, That there is still a class of 
duties to which no right, perfect or imperfect, corresponds.] 

We are bound in duty to pay due respect, not only to what is 
truly the right of another, but to what, through ignorance or 
mistake, we believe to be his right. Thus, if my neighbour is 
possessed of a horse which he stole, and to which he has no right ; 
while I believe the horse to be really his, and am ignorant of the 
theft, it is my duty to pay the same respect to this conceived 
right as if it were real. Here, then, is a moral obligation on one 
party, without any corresponding right on the other. 

To supply this defect in the system of rights, so as to make 
right and duty correspond in every instance, writers in jurispru- 
dence have had recourse to something like what is called a fic- 
tion of law. [They give the name of right to the claim which 



3^6 ESSAY V. CHAP. III. 

even the thief hath to the goods he has stolen, while the theft is 
unknown, and to all similar claims grounded on the ignorance or 
mistake of the parties concerned. And to distinguish this kind 
of right from genuine rights, perfect or imperfect, they call it an 
external right.] 

Thus it appears, That although a system of the perfect rights 
of men, or the rights of strict justice, would be a lame substitute 
for a system of human duty ; yet when we add to it the imper- 
fect and the external rights, it comprehends the whole duty we 
owe to our fellow-men. 

But it may be asked, Why should men be taught their duty 
in this indirect way, by reflection, as it were, from the rights of 
other men ? 

Perhaps it may be thought, that this indirect way may be 
more agreeable to the pride of man, as we see that men of rank 
like better to hear of obligations of honour than of obligations 
of duty (although the dictates of true honour and of duty be the 
same) for this reason, that honour puts a man in mind of what 
he owes to himself, whereas duty is a more humiliating idea. 
For a like reason, men may attend more willingly to their rights, 
which put them in mind of their dignity, than to their duties, 
which suggest their dependence. And we see that men may 
give great attention to their rights who give but little to their 
duty. 

V . True origin of systems of natural jurisprudence. — What- 
ever truth there may be in this, I believe better reasons can be 
given why systems of natural jurisprudence have been contrived 
and put in the place of systems of morals. 

Systems of civil law were invented many ages before we had 
any system of natural jurisprudence ; and the former seem to 
have suggested the idea of the latter. 

Such is the weakness of human understanding, that no large 
body of knowledge can be easily apprehended and remembered, 
unless it be arranged and methodized, that is, reduced into a 
system. When the laws of the Roman people were multiplied 
to a great degree, and the study of them became an honourable 
and lucrative profession, it became necessary that they should be 
methodized into a system. And the most natural and obvious 
way of methodizing law was found to be according to the divi- 
sions and subdivisions of men's rights, which it is the intention of 
law to protect. 

The study of law produced not only systems of law, but a 
language proper for expressing them. Every art has. its terms 
of art, for expressing the conceptions that belong to it ; and 
the civilian must have terms for expressing accurately the divi- 
sions and subdivisions of rights, and the various ways whereby 
they may be acquired, transferred, or extinguished, in the vari- 



OF SYSTEMS OF NATURAL JURISPRUDENCE. gr>>7 

ous transactions of civil society. He must have terms accurately 
defined, for the various crimes by which men's rights are vio- 
lated, not to speak of the terms which express the different 
forms of actions at law, and the various steps of the procedure 
of judicatories. 

[Those who have been bred to any profession are very prone 
to use the terms of their profession in speaking or writing on sub- 
jects that have any analogy to it. And they may do so with 
advantage, as terms of* art are commonly more precise in their 
signification, and better defined, than the words of common lan- 
guage.] To such persons it is also very natural to model and 
arrange other subjects, as far as their nature admits, into a method 
similar to that of the system which fills their minds. 

It might, therefore, be expected, that a civilian, intending to 
give a detailed system of morals, would use many of the terms 
of civil law, and mould it, as far as it can be done, into the form 
of a system of law, or of the rights of mankind. 

The necessary and close relation of right to duty, which we 
before observed, justified this : and moral duty had long been 
considered as a law of nature ; a law, not wrote on tables of 
stone or brass, but on the heart of man ; a law of greater anti- 
quity and higher authority than the laws of particular states ; a 
law which is binding upon all men of all nations, and therefore 
is called by Cicero the law of nature and of nations. 

VI. The idea of a system of this law was worthy of the genius 
of the immortal Hugo Grotius, and he was the first who exe- 
cuted it in such a manner, as to draw the attention of the learned 
in all the European nations ; and to give occasion to several 
princes and states to establish public professions for the teaching 
of this law. 

The multitude of commentators and annotators upon this work 
of Grotius, and the public establishments to which it gave occa- 
sion, are sufficient vouchers of its merit. 

It is, indeed, a work so well designed, and so skilfully exe- 
cuted ; so free from the scholastic jargon which infected the 
learned at that time, so much addressed to the common sense and 
moral judgment of mankind, and so agreeably illustrated by ex- 
amples from ancient history, and authorities from the sentiments 
of ancient authors, Heathen and Christian, that it must always 
be esteemed as the capital work of a great genius upon a most 
important subject. 

VII. The utility of a just system of natural jurisprudence ap- 
pears, 1. As it is a system of the moral duty we owe to men, 
which, by the aid they have taken from the terms and divisions 
of the civil law, has been given more in detail and more sys- 
tematically by writers in natural jurisprudence than it was for- 
merly. 2. As it is the best preparation for the study of law, 



328 ESSAY V. CHAP. III. 

being, as it were, cast in the mould, and using and explaining 
many of the terms of the civil law, on which the law of most of 
the European nations is grounded. 3. It is of use to lawyers, 
who ought to make their laws as agreeable as possible to the 
laws of nature. And as laws made by men, like all human 
works, must be imperfect, it points out the errors and imperfec- 
tions of human laws. 4. To judges and interpreters of the law 
it is of use, because that interpretation ought to be preferred 
which is founded in the law of nature. «5. It is of use in civil 
controversies between states, or between individuals who have no 
common superior. In such controversies, the appeal must be 
made to the law of nature ; and the standard systems of it, par- 
ticularly that of Grotius, have great authority. And, 6. to say 
no more upon this point, it is of great use to sovereigns and 
states who are above all human laws, to be solemnly admonished 
of the conduct they are bound to observe to their own subjects, 
to the subjects of other states, and to one another, in peace and 
in war. The better and the more generally the law of nature is 
understood, the greater dishonour, in public estimation, will 
follow every violation of it. 

VIII. Some authors have imagined, that systems of natural 
jurisprudence ought to be confined to the perfect rights of men, 
because the duties which correspond to the imperfect rights, 
the duties of charity and humanity, cannot be enforced by human 
laws, but must be left to the judgment and conscience of men, 
free from compulsion. But the systems which have had the 
greatest applause of the public, have not followed this plan, and, 
I conceive, for good reasons. First, because a system of perfect 
rights could by no means serve the purpose of a system of morals, 
which surely is an important purpose. Secondly, because, in 
many cases, it is hardly possible to fix the precise limit between 
justice and humanity, between perfect and imperfect right. Like 
the colours in a prismatic image, they run into each other, so 
that the best eye cannot fix the precise boundary between them. 
Thirdly, as wise legislators and magistrates ought to have it as 
their end to make the citizens good, as well as just, we find, in 
all civilized nations, laws that are intended to encourage the 
duties of humanity. Where human laws cannot enforce them 
by punishments, they may encourage them by rewards. Of this 
the wisest legislators have given examples ; and how far this 
branch of legislation may be carried, no man can foresee. 

The substance of the four following chapters was written long 
ago, and read in a literary society, with a view to justify some 
points of morals from metaphysical objections urged against them 
in the writings of David Hume, Esq. If they answer that end, 
and, at the same time, serve to illustrate the account I have 
given of our moral powers, it is hoped that the reader will not 



OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. ggQ 

think them improperly placed here ; and that he will forgive 
some repetitions, and perhaps anachronisms, occasioned by their 
being wrote at different times, and on different occasions. 



CHAPTEK IV. 

WHETHER AN ACTION DESERVING MORAL APPROBATION, MUST BE DONE 
WITH THE BELIEF OF ITS BEING MORALLY GOOD. 

■ I. There is no part of philosophy more subtile and intricate 
than that which is called " the theory of morals." Nor is there 
any more plain and level to the apprehension of man than the 
practical part of morals. 

In the former, the Epicurean, the Peripatetic and the Stoic, 
had each his different system of old ; and almost every modern 
author of reputation has a system of his own. At the same time, 
there is no branch of human knowledge in which there is so 
general an agreement among ancients and moderns, learned and 
unlearned, as in the practical rules of morals. 

From this discord in the theory, and harmony in the practical 
part, we may judge, that the rules of morality stand upon another 
and a firmer foundation than the theory. And of this it is easy 
to perceive the reason. 

For, in order to know what is right and what is wrong in 
human conduct, we need only listen to the dictates of our con- 
science, when the mind is calm and unruffled, or attend to the 
judgment we form of others in like circumstances. But, to 
judge of the various theories of morals, we must be able to ana- 
lyze and dissect, as it were, the active powers of the human 
mind, and especially to analyze accurately that conscience or 
moral power by which we discern right from wrong. 

^i° The conscience may be compared to the eye in this, as in 
many other respects. The learned and the unlearned see objects 
with equal distinctness. The former have no title to dictate to 
the latter, as far as the eye is judge, nor is there any disagree- 
ment about such matters But, to dissect the eye, and to explain 
the theory of vision, is a difficult point, wherein the most skilful 
have differed. 

From this remarkable disparity between our decisions in the 
theory of morals and in the rules of morality, we may, I think, 
draw this conclusion, that wherever we find any disagreement 
between the practical rules of morality, which have been received 
in all ages, and the principles of any of the theories advanced 
upon this subject, the practical rules ought to be the standard by 



330 ESSAY V. CHAP. IV. 

which the theory is to be corrected, and that it is both unsafe 
and unphilosophical to warp the practical rules, in order to make 
them tally with a favourite theory. 

II. The question to be considered in this chapter belongs to 
the practical part of morals, and therefore is capable of a more 
easy and more certain determination. And, if it be determined 
in the affirmative, I conceive that it may serve as a touchstone to 
try some celebrated theories which are inconsistent with that 
determination, and which have led the theorists to oppose it by 
very subtile metaphysical arguments. 

Every question about what is or is not the proper object of 
moral approbation, belongs to practical morals, and such is the 
question now under consideration : whether actions deserving 
moral approbation must be done with the belief of their being 
morally good ? Or, whether an action, done without any regard 
to duty or to the dictates of conscience, can be entitled to moral 
approbation ? 

In every action of a moral agent, his conscience is either alto- 
gether silent, or it pronounces the action to be good, or bad, or 
indifferent. This, I think, is a complete enumeration. If it be 
perfectly silent, the action must be very trifling, or appear so. 
For conscience, in those who have exercised it, is a very prag- 
matical faculty, and meddles with every part of our conduct, 
whether we desire its counsel or not. And what a man does in 
perfect simplicity, without the least suspicion of its being bad, 
his heart cannot condemn him for, nor will he that knows the 
heart condemn him. If there was any previous culpable negli- 
gence or inattention which led him to a wrong judgment, or 
hindered his forming a right one, that I do not exculpate. I 
only consider the action done, and the disposition with which it 
was done, without its previous circumstances. And in this there 
appears nothing that merits disapprobation. As little can it 
merit any degree of moral approbation, because there was neither 
good nor ill intended. And the same may be said when con- 
science pronounces the action to be indifferent. 

If, in the second place, I do what my conscience pronounces 
to be bad or dubious, I am guilty to myself, and justly deserve 
the disapprobation of others. Nor am I less guilty in this case, 
though what I judged to be bad should happen to be good 
or indifferent. I did it believing it to be bad, and this is an 
immorality. 

Lastly, if I do what my conscience pronounces to be right and 
my duty, either I have some regard to duty, or I have none. 
The last is not supposable ; for I believe there is no man so 
abandoned, but that he does what he believes to be his duty, 
with more assurance and alacrity upon that account. The more 
weight the rectitude of the action has in determining me to do 



OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. ggj 

it, the more I approve of my own conduct. And if my worldly 
interest, my appetites or inclinations, draw me strongly the con- 
trary way, my following the dictates of my conscience, in oppo- 
sition to these motives, adds to the moral worth of the action. ) 

When a man acts from an erroneous judgment, if his error he 
invincible, all agree that he is inculpable : but if his error be 
owing to some previous negligence or inattention, there seems to 
be some difference among moralists. This difference, however, 
is only seeming, and not real. For wherein lies the fault in this 
case ? It must be granted by all, that the fault lies in this, and 
solely in this, that he was not at due pains to have his judgment 
well informed. Those moralists, therefore, who consider the 
action and the previous conduct that led to it as one whole, find 
something to blame in the whole ; and they do so most justly. 
But those who take this whole to pieces, and consider what is 
blameable and what is right in each part, find all that is blame- 
able in what preceded this wrong judgment, and nothing but 
what is appro vable in what followed it. 

ggp" Let us suppose, for instance, that a man believes that God 
has indispensably required him to observe a very rigorous fast in 
Lent ; and that, from a regard to this supposed Divine command, 
he fasts in such a manner as is not only a great mortification to 
his appetite, but even hurtful to his health. 

His superstitious opinion may be the effect of a culpable neg- 
ligence, for which he can by no means be justified. Let him, 
therefore, bear all the blame upon this account that he deserves. 
But now, having this opinion fixed in his mind, shall he act 
according to it or against it ? Surely we cannot hesitate a mo- 
ment in this case. It is evident, that in following the light of 
his judgment, he acts the part of a good and pious man ; whereas, 
in acting contrary to his judgment, he would be guilty of wilful 
disobedience to his Maker. 

iiF If my servant, by mistaking my orders, does the contrary 
of what I commanded, believing, at the same time, that he obeys 
my orders, there may be some fault in his mistake, but to charge 
him with the crime of disobedience, would be inhuman and 
unjust. 

These determinations appear to me to have intuitive evidence, 
no less than that of mathematical axioms. A man who is come 
to years of understanding, and who has exercised his faculties in 
judging of right and wrong, sees their truth as he sees daylight. 
Metaphysical arguments brought against them have the same 
effect as when brought against the evidence of sense ; they may 
puzzle and confound, but they do not convince. It appears 
evident, therefore, that those actions only can truly be called 
virtuous, or deserving of moral approbation, which the agent 



33^ ESSAY V. CHAP. IV. 

believed to be right, and to which he was influenced, more or 
less, by that belief. 

III. If it should be objected, [that this principle makes it to 
be of no consequence to a man's morals, what his opinions may 
be, providing he acts agreeably to them, the answer is easy.] 

[Morality requires, not only that a man should act according 
to his judgment, but that he should use the best means in his 
power that his judgment be according to truth.] If he fail in 
either of these points, he is worthy of blame ; but, if he fail in 
neither, I see not wherein he can be blamed. 

When a man must act, and has no longer time to deliberate, 
he ought to act according to the light of his conscience, even 
when he is in an error. But, when he has time to deliberate, 
he ought surely to use all the means in his power to be rightly 
informed. When he has done so, he may still be in an error ; 
but it is an invincible error, and cannot justly be imputed to him 
as a fault. 

IV. A second objection is, that we immediately approve of 
benevolence, gratitude, and other primary virtues, without in- 
quiring whether they are practised from a persuasion that they 
are our duty. And the laws of God place the sum of virtue in 
loving God and our neighbour, without any provision that we do 
it from a persuasion that we ought to do so.] 

The answer to this objection is, [that the love of God, the 
love of our neighbour, justice, gratitude, and other primary 
virtues, are, by the constitution of human nature, necessarily 
accompanied with a conviction of their being morally good. We 
may therefore safely presume, that these things are never dis- 
joined, and that every man who practises these virtues does it 
with a good conscience.] In judging of men's conduct, we do 
not suppose things which cannot happen, nor do the laws of God 
give decisions upon impossible cases, as they must have done, if 
they supposed the case of a man who thought it contrary to his 
duty to love God or to love mankind. 

But if we wish to know how the laws of God determine the 
point in question, we ought to observe their decision with regard 
to such actions as may appear good to one man and ill to another. 
And here the decisions of Scripture are clear : Let every man be 
persuaded in his own mind. He that doubteth is condemned if he 
eat, because he eateth not of faith, for whatsoever is not of faith 
is sin. To him that esteemeth any thing to be unclean, it is un- 
clean. The Scripture often placeth the sum of virtue in living 
in all good conscience, in acting so that our hearts condemn 
us not. 

V. The last objection I shall mention is a metaphysical one 
urged by Mr. Hume. 



OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. ggg 

It is a favourite point in his system of morals, that justice is 
not a natural but an artificial virtue. To prove this, he has 
exerted the whole strength of his reason and eloquence. And 
as the principle we are considering stood in his way, he takes 
pains to refute it. 

" Suppose," says he, " a person to have lent me a sum of 
money, on condition that it be restored in a few days. After 
the expiration of the term he demands the sum. I ask, what 
reason or motive have I to restore the money ? It will perhaps 
be said, that my regard to justice, and abhorrence of villany and 
knavery, are sufficient reasons for me." And this, he acknow- 
ledges, would be a satisfactory answer to a man in a civilized 
state, and when trained up according to a certain discipline and 
education. " But in his rude and more natural condition," 
says he, " if you are pleased to call such a condition natural, 
this answer would be rejected as perfectly unintelligible and so- 
phistical. 

" For wherein consists this honesty and justice ? Not surely 
in the external action. It must, therefore, consist in the mo- 
tive from which the external act is derived. This motive can 
never be a regard to the honesty of the action. For it is a plain 
fallacy to say, that a virtuous motive is requisite to render an 
action honest, and, at the same time, that a regard to the ho- 
nesty is the motive to the action. We can never have a regard 
to the virtue of an action, unless the action be antecedently 
virtuous." 

And, in another place, " To suppose that the mere regard to 
the virtue of the action is that which rendered it virtuous, is to 
reason in a circle. An action must be virtuous, before we can 
have a regard to its virtue. Some virtuous motive, therefore, 
must be antecedent to that regard. Nor is this merely a meta- 
physical subtilty," &c— - Treatise of Human Nature, book iii. 
part 2, sect. 1. 

VI. / am not to consider at this time, how this reasoning is 
applied to support the author's opinion, that justice is not a 
natural but an artificial virtue. I consider it only as far as it 
opposes the principle I have been endeavouring to establish, 
" That, to render an action truly virtuous, the agent must have 
some regard to its rectitude." And I conceive the whole force 
of the reasoning amounts to this : 

When we judge an action to be good or bad, it must have 
been so in its own nature antecedent to that judgment, other- 
wise the judgment is erroneous. If, therefore, the action be 
good in its nature, the judgment of the agent cannot make it bad ; 
nor can his judgment make it good, if, in its nature, it be bad. 
For this would be to ascribe to our judgment a strange magical 



334 ESSAY V. CHAP. IV. 

power to transform the nature of things, and to say, that my 
judging a thing to be what it is not, makes it really to be what 
I erroneously judge it to be. This, I think, is the objection in 
its full strength. And, in answer to it, 

First, If we could not loose this metaphysical knot, I think 
we might fairly and honestly cut it, because it fixes an absur- 
dity upon the clearest and most indisputable principles of morals 
and of common sense. For I appeal to any man whether there be 
any principle of morality, or any principle of common sense, 
more clear and indisputable than that which we just now quoted 
from the Apostle Paul, that although a thing be not unclean in 
itself, yet to him that esteemeth it to be unclean, to him it is 
unclean. But the metaphysical argument makes this absurd. 
For, says the metaphysician, if the thing was not unclean in it- 
self, you judged wrong in esteeming it to be unclean ; and what 
can be more absurd, than that your esteeming a thing to be 
what it is not, should make it what you erroneously esteem it 
to be? 

Let us try the edge of this argument in another instance. No- 
thing is more evident than that an action does not merit the 
name of benevolent, unless it be done from a belief that it tends 
to promote the good of our neighbour. But this is absurd, 
says the metaphysician. For, if it be not a benevolent action in 
itself, your belief of its tendency cannot change its nature. It is 
absurd, that your erroneous belief should make the action to 
be what you believe it be. Nothing is more evident, than that 
a man who tells the truth, believing it to be a lie, is guilty 
of falsehood ; but the metaphysician would make this to be 
absurd. 

In a word, if there be any strength in this argument, it would 
follow, that a man might be, in the highest degree, virtuous, 
without the least regard to virtue ; that he might be very bene- 
volent, without ever intending to do a good office ; very mali- 
cious, without ever intending any hurt ; very revengeful, without 
ever intending to retaliate an injury ; very grateful, without 
ever intending to return a benefit ; and a man of strict veracity, 
with an intention to lie. We might, therefore, reject this rea- 
soning, as repugnant to self-evident truths, though we were not 
able to point out the fallacy of it. 

2. But let us try, in the second place, whether the fallacy of 
this argument may not be discovered. 

We ascribe moral goodness to actions considered abstractly, 
without any relation to the agent. We likewise ascribe moral 
goodness to an agent on account of an action he has done ; we 
call it a good action, though, in this case, the goodness is pro- 
perly in the man, and is only by a figure ascribed to the action. 



OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. 335 

Now, it is to be considered, whether moral goodness, when ap- 
plied to an action considered abstractly, has the same meaning 
as when we apply it to a man on account of that action ; or whe- 
ther we do not unawares change the meaning of the word, accord- 
ing as we apply it to the one or to the other. 

[The action, considered abstractly, has neither understanding 
nor will ; it is not accountable, nor can it be under any moral 
obligation.] But all these things are essential to that moral good- 
ness which belongs to a man : for if a man had not understanding 
and will, he could have no moral goodness. Hence it follows 
necessarily, that the moral goodness which we ascribe to an action 
considered abstractly, and that which we ascribe to a person for 
doing that action, are not the same. The meaning of the word 
is changed when it is applied to these different subjects. 

This will be more evident, when we consider what is meant 
by the moral goodness which we ascribe to a man for doing an 
action, and what by the goodness which belongs to the action 
considered abstractly. A good action in a man is that in which 
he applied his intellectual powers properly, in order to judge 
what he ought to do, and acted according to his best judgment. 
This is all that can be required of a moral agent ; and in this his 
moral goodness, in any good action, consists. But is this the 
goodness which we ascribe to an action considered abstractly ? 
No, surely. For the action, considered abstractly, is neither 
endowed with judgment nor with active power ; and, therefore, 
can have none of that goodness which we ascribe to the man for 
doing it. 

But what do we mean by goodness in an action considered 
abstractly ? To me it appears to lie in this, and in this only, 
that it is an action which ought to be done by those who have 
the power and opportunity, and the capacity of perceiving 
their obligation to do it. I would gladly know of any man what 
other moral goodness can be in an action considered abstractly. 
And this goodness is inherent in its nature, and inseparable 
from it. No opinion or judgment of an agent can in the least 
alter its nature. 

ggF Suppose the action to be that of relieving an innocent 
person out of great distress. This surely has all the moral good- 
ness that an action considered abstractly can have. Yet it is 
evident, that an agent, in relieving a person in distress, may have 
no moral goodness, may have great merit, or may have great de- 
merit. t 

Suppose, first, that mice cut the cords which bound the dis- 
tressed person, and so bring him relief. Is there moral goodness 
in this act of the mice ? 

Suppose, secondly, that a man maliciously relieves the dis- 
tressed person, in order to plunge him into greater distress. In 



336 ESSAY V. CHAP. IV. 

this action there is surely no moral goodness, but much malice 
and inhumanity. 

If, in the last place, we suppose a person, from real sympar 
thy and humanity, to bring relief to the distressed person, with 
considerable expense or danger to himself; here is an action 
of real worth, which every heart approves and every tongue 
praises. [But wherein lies the worth ? Not in the action con- 
sidered by itself, which was common to all the three, but in the 
man who, on this occasion, acted the part which became a good 
j man. He did what his heart approved, and therefore he is ap- 
( proved by God and man.] 

VII. Upon the whole, if we distinguish between that good- 
ness which maybe ascribed to an action considered by itself, and 
that goodness which we ascribe to a man when he puts it in exe- 
cution, we shall find a key to this metaphysical lock. We ad- 
mit that the goodness of an action, considered abstractly, can 
have no dependence upon the opinion or belief of an agent, any 
more than the truth of a proposition depends upon our believ- 
ing it to be true. But when a man exerts his active power well, 
or ill, there is a moral goodness or turpitude which we figur- 
atively impute to the action, but which is truly and properly 
imputable to the man only ; and this goodness or turpitude de- 
pends very much upon the intention of the agent, and the opinion 
he had of his action. 

This distinction has been understood in all ages by those who 
gave any attention to morals, though it has been variously ex- 
pressed. The Greek moralists gave the name of kclOtjkov to an 
action good in itself ; such an action might be done by the most 
worthless. But an action done with a right intention, which 
implies real worth in the agent, they called KaropOaifxa. The 
distinction is explained by Cicero in his " Offices." He calls 
the first officium medium, and the second officium perfectum, or 
rectum. In the scholastic ages, an action good in itself was said 
to be materially good, and an action done with a right intention 
was called formally good. This last way of expressing the dis- 
tinction is still familiar among theologians ; but Mr. Hume 
seems not to have attended to it, or to have thought it to be 
words withtfut any meaning. 

Mr. Hume, in the section already quoted, tells us with great 
assurance, " In short, it may be established as an undoubted 
maxim, that no action can be virtuous or morally good, unless 
there be in human nature some motive to produce it distinct 
from the sense of its morality." And upon this maxim he founds 
many of his reasonings on the subject of morals. 

Whether it be consistent with Mr. Hume's own system, that 
an action may be produced merely from the sense of its morality, 
without any motive of agreeableness or utility, I shall not now 



OBJECT OF MORAL APPROBATION. 337 

inquire. But, if it be true, and I think it evident to every man 
of common understanding, that a judge or an arbiter acts the 
most virtuous part when his sentence is produced by no other 
motive but a regard to justice and a good conscience, nay, when 
all other motives distinct from this are on the other side : if 
this, I say, be true, then that undoubted maxim of Mr. Hume 
must be false, and all the conclusions built upon it must fall to 
the ground. 

VIII. From the principle I have endeavoured to establish, I 
think some consequences may be drawn with regard to the theory 
of morals. 

First, If there be no virtue without the belief that what we 
do is right, it follows, that a moral faculty, that is, a power of 
discerning moral goodness and turpitude in human conduct, is 
essential to every being capable of virtue or vice. A being who 
has no more conception of moral goodness and baseness, of right 
and wrong, than a blind man hath of colours, can have no regard 
to it in his conduct, and therefore can neither be virtuous nor 
vicious. 

He may have qualities that are agreeable or disagreeable, 
useful or hurtful, so may a plant or a machine. And we some- 
times use the word virtue in such a latitude, as to signify any 
agreeable or useful quality, as when we speak of the virtues of 
plants. But we are now speaking of virtue- in the strict and 
proper sense, as it signifies that quality in a man which is the 
object of moral approbation. 

This virtue a man could not have, if he had not a power of 
discerning a right and a wrong in human conduct, and of being 
influenced by that discernment. For in so far only he is vir- 
tuous as he is guided in his conduct by that part of his constitu- 
tion. Brutes do not appear to have any such power, and there- 
fore are not moral or accountable agents. They are capable of 
culture and discipline, but not of virtuous or criminal conduct. 
Even human creatures, in infancy and non-age, are not moral 
agents, because their moral faculty is not yet unfolded. These 
sentiments are supported by the common sense of mankind, 
which has always determined, that neither brutes nor infants 
can be indicted for crimes. 

IX. Conscience, or moral sense. — [It is of small consequence 
what name we give to this moral power of the human mind ; but it 
is so important a part of our constitutifh, as to deserve an appro- 
priated name. The name of conscience, as it is the most com- 
mon, seems to me as proper as any that has been given it. I 
find no fault with the name moral sense, although I conceive 
this name has given occasion to some mistakes concerning the 
nature of our moral power.] Modern philosophers have con- 
ceived of the external senses as having no other office but to 

z 



3g£ ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 

give us certain sensations, or simple conceptions, which we could 
not have without them. And this notion has been applied to the 
moral sense. But it seems to me a mistaken notion in both. 
By the sense of seeing, I not only have the conception of the 
different colours, but I perceive one body to be of this colour, 
another of that. In like manner, by my moral sense, I not 
only have the conceptions of right and wrong in conduct, but I 
perceive this conduct to be right, that to be wrong, and that 
indifferent. All our senses are judging faculties, so also is con- 
science. Nor is this power only a judge of our own actions and 
those of others, it is likewise a principle of action in all good 
men ; and so far only can our conduct be denominated virtuous, 
as it is influenced by this principle. 

X. [A second consequence from the principle laid down in 

this chapter is, That the formal nature and essence of that virtue 

which is the object of moral approbation consists neither in a 

prudent prosecution of our private interest, nor in benevolent 

affections towards others, nor in qualities useful or agreeable to 

ourselves or to others, nor in sympathizing with the passions 

and affections of others, and in attuning our own conduct to the 

/ tone of other men's passions ; but it consists in living in all good 

) conscience, that is, in using the best means in our power to 

] know our duty, and acting accordingly.] 

Prudence is a virtue, benevolence is a virtue, fortitude is a 
virtue ; but the essence and formal nature of virtue must lie in 
something that is common to all these, and to every other virtue. 
And this I conceive can be nothing else but the rectitude of 
such conduct, and turpitude of the contrary, which is discerned 
by a good man. And so far only he is virtuous as he pursues 
^_the former, and avoids the latter.^ 



CHAPTER V. 



WHETHER JUSTICE BE A NATURAL OR AN ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE. 

I. Hume consistent as a writer on morals. — Mr. Hume's phi- 
losophy concerning morals was first presented to the world in 
the third volume of his " Treatise of Human Nature," in the 
year 1740; afterwards i#his " Enquiry concerning the Princi- 
ples of Morals," which was first published by itself, and then in 
several editions of his " Essays and Treatises." 

In these two works on morals the system is the same. A more 
popular arrangement, great embellishment, and the omission of 
some metaphysical reasonings, have given a preference in the 
public esteem to the last ; but I find neither any new principles 



of justice. 339 

in it, nor any new arguments in support of the system common 
to both. 

In this system, the proper object of moral approbation is not 
actions or any voluntary exertion, but qualities of mind ; that 
is, natural affections or passions, which are involuntary, a part 
of the constitution of the man, and common to us with many 
brute animals, When we praise or blame any voluntary action, 
it is only considered as a sign of the natural affection from which 
it flows, and from which all its merit or demerit is derived. 

Moral approbation or disapprobation is not an act of the 
judgment, which, like all acts of judgment, must be true or 
false, it is only a certain feeling, which, from the constitution of 
human nature, arises upon contemplating certain characters or 
qualities of mind coolly and impartially. 

This feeling, when agreeable, is moral approbation ; when 
disagreeable, disapprobation. The qualities of mind which pro- 
duce this agreeable feeling are the moral virtues, and those that 
produce the disagreeable, the vices. 

II. These preliminaries being granted, the question about the 
foundation of morals is reduced to a simple question of fact, viz. 
[What are the qualities of mind which produce, in the disinter- 
ested observer, the feeling of approbation, or the contrary feeling ?] 

In answer to this question, the author endeavours to prove, 
by a very copious induction, that all personal merit, all virtue, 
all that is the object of moral approbation, consists in the qua- 
lities of mind which are agreeable or useful to the person who 
possesses them, or to others. 

The dulce and the utile is the whole sum of merit in every 
character, in every quality of mind, and in every action of life. 
There is no room left for that honestum which Cicero thus defines, 
" Honestum igitur id intelligimus, quod tale est, ut detracta 
omni utilitate, sine ullis premiis fructibusve, per se ipsum possit 
jure laudari." — " Moral worth is of such a character, that, setting 
aside all idea of utility, without rewards or fruits of any kind, it 
may justly be praised on its own account solely." 

III. Hume agrees with the Epicureans in one respect. — [Among 
the ancient moralists, the Epicureans were the only sect who 
denied that there is any such thing as honestum, or moral worth, 
distinct from pleasure. In this Mr. Hume's system agrees with 
theirs. For the addition of utility to pleasure, as a foundation 
of morals, makes only a verbal, but no real difference.] What 
is useful only has no value in itself, but derives all its merit 
from the end for which it is useful. That end, in this system, 
is agreeableness or pleasure. So that, in both systems, pleasure 
is the only end, the only thing that is good in itself, and desirable 
for its own sake ; and virtue derives all its merit from its ten- 
dency to produce pleasure. 

z 2 



340 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 

Agreeableness and utility are not moral conceptions, nor have 
they any connexion with morality. What a man does, merely 
because it is agreeable, or useful to procure what is agreeable, 
is not virtue. Therefore the Epicurean system was justly thought 
by Cicero, and the best moralists among the ancients, to subvert 
morality, and to substitute another principle in its room ; and 
this system is liable to the same censure. 

IV. Disagrees in another. — [In one thing, however, it differs 
remarkably from that of Epicurus. It allows, that there are 
disinterested affections in human nature ; that the love of chil- 
dren and relations, friendship, gratitude, compassion, and human- 
ity, are not, as Epicurus maintained, different modifications of 
self-love, but simple and original parts of the human constitu- 
tion ; that when interest, or envy, or revenge, pervert not our 
disposition, we are inclined, from natural philanthropy, to desire, 
and to be pleased with the happiness of the human kind.] 

All this, in opposition to the Epicurean system, Mr. Hume 
maintains with great strength of reason and eloquence, and, in 
this respect, his system is more liberal and disinterested than 
that of the Greek philosopher. According to Epicurus, virtue 
is whatever is agreeable to ourselves. According to Mr. Hume, 
every quality of mind that is agreeable or useful to ourselves or 
to others. 

V. Effect of this doctrine. — [This theory of the nature of vir- 
tue, it must be acknowledged, enlarges greatly the catalogue of 
moral virtues, by bringing into that catalogue every quality of 
mind that is useful or agreeable.] Nor does there appear any 
good reason why the useful and agreeable qualities of body and 
of fortune, as well as those of the mind, should not have a 
place among moral virtues in this system. They have the essence 
of virtue ; that is, agreeableness and utility, why then should 
they not have the name ? 

But, to compensate this addition to the moral virtues, one 
class of them seems to be greatly degraded and deprived of all 
intrinsic merit. The useful virtues, as was above observed, are 
only ministering servants of the agreeable, and purveyors for 
them ; they must, therefore, be so far inferior in dignity, as 
hardly to deserve the same name. 

VI. Natural and artificial virtues. — [Mr. Hume, however, 
gives the name of virtue to both ; and to distinguish them, calls 
the agreeable qualities natural virtues, and the useful artificial.'] 

[The natural virtues are those natural affections of the human 
constitution which give immediate pleasure in their exercise. 
Such are all the benevolent affections.] Nature disposes to them, 
and from their own nature they are agreeable, both when we 
exercise them ourselves, and when we contemplate their exer- 
cise in others. 



OF JUSTICE. 341 

[The artificial virtues are such as are esteemed solely on 
account of their utility, either (1) to promote the good of society, 
as justice, fidelity, honour, veracity, allegiance, chastity ; or (2) 
on account of their utility to the possessor, as industry, discre- 
tion, frugality, secrecy, order, perseverance, forethought, judg- 
ment, and others,] of which, he says, many pages could not con- 
tain the catalogue. 

This general view of Mr. Hume's system concerning the foun- 
dation of morals, seemed necessary, in order to understand dis- 
tinctly the meaning of that principle of his, which is to be the 
subject of this chapter, and on which he has bestowed much 
labour, to wit, " that justice is not a natural but an artificial 
virtue." 

VI T. [ This system of the foundation of virtue is so contradic- 
tory in many of its essential points to the account we have before 
given of the active powers of human nature, that, if the one be 
true, the other must be false.] 
£ If God has given to man a power which we call conscience, 
the moral faculty, the sense of duty, by which, when he comes 
to years of understanding, he perceives certain things that depend 
on his will to be his duty, and other things to be base and un- 
worthy ; if the notion of duty be a simple conception, of its own 
kind, and of a different nature from the conceptions of utility 
and agreeableness, of interest or reputation ; if this moral faculty 
be the prerogative of man, and no vestige of it be found in brute 
animals ; if it be given us by God to regulate all our animal 
affections and passions ; if to be governed by it be the glory of 
man and the image of God in his soul, and to disregard its dic- 
tates be his dishonour and depravity : I say, if these things be 
so, to seek the foundation of morality in the affections which we 
have in common with the brutes, is to seek the living among the 
dead, and to change the glory of man, and the image of God in 
his soul, into the similitude of an ox that eateth grass. ) 

If virtue and vice be a matter of choice, they must consist in 
voluntary actions, or in fixed purposes of acting according to a 
certain rule when there is opportunity, and not in qualities of 
mind which are involuntary. 

( It is true, that every virtue is both agreeable and useful in the 
highest degree ; and that every quality that is agreeable or use- 
ful, has a merit upon that account. \ But virtue has a merit 
peculiar to itself, a merit which does*' not arise from its being 
useful or agreeable, but from its being virtue. This merit is 
discerned by the same faculty by which we discern it to be 
virtue, and by no other. 

VIII. Esteem. — [We give the name of esteem both to the 
regard we have/or things useful and agreeable, and to the regard 
we have for virtue ; but these are different kinds of esteem.] I 



342 ESSAY V. , CHAP. V. 

esteem a man for his ingenuity and learning. I esteem him for 
his moral worth. The sound of esteem in both these speeches 
is the same, but its meaning is very different. 
( Good breeding is a very amiable quality ; and even if I knew 
that the man had no motive to it but its pleasure and utility to 
himself and others, I should like it still, but I would not in that 
case call it a moral virtue. \ 

A dog has a tender concern for her puppies ; so has a man 
for his children. The natural affection is the same in both, and 
is amiable in both. But why do we impute moral virtue to the 
man on account of this concern, and not to the dog? The 
reason surely is, that, in the man, the natural affection is accom- 
panied with a sense of duty, but, in the dog, it is not. The same 
thing may be said of all the kind affections common to us with 
the brutes. They are amiable qualities, but they are not moral 
virtues. 

IX. The merit of justice > according to Hume. — What has been 
said relates to Mr. Hume's system in general. We are now to 
consider his notion of the particular virtue of justice, that its 
merit consists wholly in its utility to society. 

That justiee'is highly useful and necessary in society, and on 
that account, ought to be loved and esteemed by all that love 
mankind, will readily be granted. And as justice is a social 
virtue, it is true also that there could be no exercise of it, and 
perhaps we should have no conception of it without society. 
But this is equally true of the natural affections of benevolence, 
gratitude, friendship, and compassion, which Mr. Hume makes 
to be the natural virtues. 

It may be granted to Mr. Hume, that men have no conception 
of the virtue of justice till they have lived some time in society. 
It is purely a moral conception, and our moral conceptions and 
moral judgments are not born with us. They grow up by 
degrees, as our reason does. Nor do I pretend to know how 
early, or in what order, we acquire the conception of the several 
virtues. The conception of justice supposes some exercise of 
the moral faculty, which, being the noblest part of the human 
constitution, and that to which all its other parts are subservient, 
appears latest. 

It may likewise be granted, that there is no animal affection 
in human nature that prompts us immediately to acts of justice, 
as such. We have natural affections of the animal kind, which 
immediately prompt us to acts of kindness; but none, that I 
know, that has the same relation to justice. The very concep- 
tion of justice supposes a moral faculty ; but our natural kind 
affections do not ; otherwise we must allow that brutes have this 
faculty. 

X. What I maintain is, first j That when men come to the 



of justice. 343 

exercise of their moral faculty, they perceive a turpitude in 
injustice, as they do in other crimes, and consequently an obli- 
gation to justice, abstracting from the consideration of its utility. 
And, secondly, That as soon as men have any rational conception 
of a favour, and of an injury, they must have the conception of 
justice, and perceive its obligation distinct from its utility. 

The first of these points hardly admits of any other proof, but 
an appeal to the sentiments of every honest man, and every man 
of honour, whether his indignation is not immediately inflamed 
against an atrocious act of villany, without the cool consideration 
of its distant consequences upon the good of society ? 

We might appeal even to robbers and pirates, Whether they 

have not had great struggles with their conscience, when they 

first resolved to break through all the rules of justice ? And 

J whether, in a solitary and serious hour, they have not frequently 

\ felt the pangs of guilt ? They have very often confessed this at 

^a time when all disguise is laid aside. 

The common good of society, though a pleasing object to all 
men, when presented to their view, hardly ever enters into the 
thoughts of the far greatest part of mankind ; and if a regard to 
it were the sole motive to justice, the number of honest men 
must be small indeed. It would be confined to the higher ranks, 
who, by their education, or by their office, are led to make the 
public good an object; but that it is so confined, I believe no 
man will venture to affirm. 

The temptations to injustice are strongest in the lowest class 
of men ; and if nature had provided no motive to oppose those 
temptations but a sense of public good, there would not be found 
an honest man in that class. 

To all men that are not greatly corrupted, injustice, as well as 
cruelty and ingratitude, is an object of disapprobation on its own 
I account. There is a voice within us that proclaims it to be base, 
unworthy, and deserving of punishment. 

That there is, in all ingenuous natures, an antipathy to roguery 
and treachery, a reluctance to the thoughts of villany and base- 
ness, we have the testimony of Mr. Hume himself ; who, as I 
doubt not but he felt it, has expressed it very strongly in the 
conclusion to his " Enquiry," and acknowledged that, in some 
cases, without this reluctance and antipathy to dishonesty, a 
sensible knave would find no sufficient motive from public good 
to be honest. 

I shall give the passage at large from the "Enquiry concerning 
the Principles of Morals," sec. 9, near the end. 

" Treating vice with the greatest candour, and making it all 
possible concessions, we must acknowledge that there is not, in 
any instance, the smallest pretext for giving it the preference 
above virtue, with a view to self-interest ; except, perhaps, in 



344 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 

the case of justice, where a man, taking things in a certain light, 
may often seem to be a loser by his integrity. And though it is 
allowed that, without a regard to property, no society could sub- 
sist ; yet, according to the imperfect way in which human affairs 
are conducted, a sensible knave, in particular incidents, may 
think, that an act of iniquity or infidelity will make a consider- 
able addition to his fortune, without causing any considerable 
breach in the social union and confederacy. That honesty is the 
best policy, may be a good general rule, but it is liable to many 
exceptions : and he, it may perhaps be thought, conducts him- 
self with most wisdom who observes the general rule, and takes 
advantage of all the exceptions. 

" I must confess that, if a man think that this reasoning much 
requires an answer, it will be a little difficult to find any which 
will to him appear satisfactory and convincing. If his heart 
rebel not against such pernicious maxims, if he feel no reluc- 
tance to the thoughts of villany and baseness, he has indeed lost 
a considerable motive to virtue, and we may expect that his 
practice will be answerable to his speculation. But in all ingenu- 
ous natures, the antipathy to treachery and roguery is too strong 
to be counterbalanced by any views of profit or pecuniary advan- 
tage. Inward peace of mind, consciousness of integrity, a satis- 
factory review of our own conduct ; these are circumstances very 
requisite to happiness, and will be cherished and cultivated by 
every honest man who feels the importance of them." 

The reasoning of the sensible knave in this passage, seems to 
me to be justly founded upon the principles of the " Enquiry," 
and of the " Treatise of Human Nature," and therefore it is no 
wonder that the author should find it a little difficult to give 
any answer which would appear satisfactory and convincing to 
such a man. To counterbalance this reasoning, he puts in the 
other scale a reluctance, an antipathy, a rebellion of the heart 
against such pernicious maxims, which is felt by ingenuous 
natures. 

XI. [Let us consider a little the force of Mr. Hume's answer 
to this sensible knave, who reasons upon his own principles.] I 
think it is either an acknowledgment, that there is a natural 
judgment of conscience in man, that injustice and treachery is a 
base and unworthy practice, which is the point I would esta- 
blish ; or it has no force to convince either the knave or an 
honest man. 

A clear and intuitive judgment, resulting from the constitution 
of human nature, is sufficient to overbalance a train of subtile 
reasoning on the other side. Thus, the testimony of our senses 
is sufficient to overbalance all the subtile arguments brought 
against their testimony. And, if there be a like testimony of 
conscience in favour of honesty, all the subtile reasoning of the 



OF JUSTICE. 345 

knave against it ought to be rejected without examination, as 
fallacious and sophistical, because it concludes against a self- 
evident principle ; just as we reject the subtile reasoning of the 
metaphysician against the evidence of sense. 

If, therefore, the reluctance, the antipathy, the rebellion of the 
heart against injustice, which Mr. Hume sets against the reason- 
ing of the knave, include in their meaning a natural intuitive 
judgment of conscience, that injustice is base and unworthy, the 
reasoning of the knave is convincingly answered ; but the prin- 
ciple, That justice is an artificial virtue, approved solely for its 
utility, is given up. 

If, on the other hand, the antipathy, reluctance, and rebellion 
of heart, imply no judgment, but barely an uneasy feeling, and 
that not natural, but acquired and artificial, the answer is indeed 
very agreeable to the principles of the " Enquiry," but has no 
force to convince the knave or any other man. 

The knave is here supposed by Mr. Hume to have no such 
feelings, and therefore the answer does not touch his case in the 
least, but leaves him in the full possession of his reasoning. And 
ingenuous natures, who have these feelings, are left to deliberate 
whether they will yield to acquired and artificial feelings, in 
opposition to rules of conduct, which, to their best judgment, 
appear wise and prudent. 

XII, [The second thing I proposed to show was, That as soon 
as men have any rational conception of & favour and of an injury, 
they must have the conception of- justice, and perceive its obli- 
gation.]* 

The power with which the Author of nature hath endowed 
us, may be employed either to do good to our fellow men, or to 
hurt them. When we employ our power to promote the good 
and happiness of others, this is a benefit or favour ; when we 
employ it to hurt them, it is an injury. Justice fills up the 
middle between these two. It is such a conduct as does no 
injury to others ; but it does not imply the doing them any 
favour. 

The notions of a favour and of an injury, appear as early in 
the mind of man as any rational notion whatever. They are 
discovered not by language only, but by certain affections of 
mind, of which they are the natural objects. A favour natu- 
rally produces gratitude. An injury done to ourselves produces 
resentment ; and even when done to another, it produces indig- 
nation. 

I take it for granted that gratitude and resentment are no less 
natural to the human mind than hunger and thirst; and that 
those affections are no less naturally excited by their proper 
objects and occasions than these appetites. 
* Vide p. 343, sect. 10. 



346 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 

It is no less evident, that the proper and formal object of gra- 
titude is a person who has done us a favour ; that of resentment, 
a person who has done us an injury. 

Before the use of reason, the distinction between a favour and 
an agreeable office is not perceived. Every action of another 
person which gives present pleasure produces love and good will 
towards the agent. Every action that gives pain or uneasiness 
produces resentment. This is common to man before the use of 
reason, and to the more sagacious brutes ; and it shows no con- 
ception of justice in either. 

But as we grow up to the use of reason, the notion, both of a 
favour and of an injury, grows more distinct and better denned. 
It is not enough that a good office be done ; it must be done 
from good-will, and with a good intention, otherwise it is no 
favour, nor does it produce gratitude. 

0gf I have heard of a physician who gave spiders in a medi- 
cine to a dropsical patient, with an intention to poison him, and 
that this medicine cured the patient, contrary to the intention of 
the physician. Surely no gratitude, but resentment, was due 
by the patient, when he knew the real state of the case. It is 
evident to every man, that a benefit arising from the action of 
another, either without or against his intention, is not a motive 
to gratitude ; that is, is no favour. 

Another thing implied in the nature of a favour is, that it be 
not due. A man may save my credit by paying what he owes 
me. In this case, what he does tends to my benefit, and perhaps 
is done with that intention ; but it is not a favour, it is no more 
than he was bound to do. 

iSF If a servant do his work, and receive his wages, there is 
no favour done on either part, nor any object of gratitude ; be- 
cause, though each party has benefited the other, yet neither has 
done more than he was bound to do. 

What I infer from this is, That the conception of a favour in 
every man come to years of understanding, implies the concep- 
\ tion of things not due, and consequently the conception of things 
that are due. 

v A negative cannot be conceived by one who has no conception 
of the correspondent positive. Not to be due is the negative of 
being due ; and he who conceives one of them must conceive 
both. The conception of things due and not due must there- 
fore be found in every mind which has any rational conception 
of a favour, or any rational sentiment of gratitude. 

XIII. [If we consider, on the other hand, what an injury is 
which is the object of the natural passion of resentment, every 
man, capable of reflection, perceives, that an injury implies more 
than being hurt.] If I be hurt by a stone falling out of the wall, 
or by a flash of lightning, or by a convulsive and involuntary 



OF JUSTICE. 047 

motion of another man's arm, no injury is done, no resentment 
raised in a man that has reason. In this, as in all moral 
actions, there must be the will and intention of the agent to do 
the hurt. 

Nor is this sufficient to constitute an injury. The man who 
breaks my fences, or treads down my corn, when he cannot other- 
wise preserve himself from destruction, who has no injurious 
intention, and is willing to indemnify me for the hurt which 
necessity, and not ill-will, led him to do, is not injurious, nor is 
an object of resentment. 

The executioner who does his duty, in cutting off the head of 
a condemned criminal, is not an object of resentment. He does 
nothing unjust, and therefore nothing injurious. 

From this it is evident, that an injury, the object of the 
natural passion of resentment, implies in it the notion of injus- 
tice. And it is no less evident, that no man can have a notion 
of injustice without having the notion of justice. 

XIV. [To sum up what has been said upon this point : a favour, 
an act of justice, and an injury, are so related to one another, 
that he who conceives one must conceive the other two. They 
lie, as it were, in one line, and resemble the relations of greater, 
less and equal.] If one understands what is meant by one line 
being greater or less than another, he can be at no loss to under- 
stand what is meant by its being equal to the other ; for, if it 
be neither greater nor less, it must be equal. 

In like manner, of those actions by which we profit or hurt 
other men, a favour is more than justice, an injury is less ; and 
that which is neither a favour nor an injury is a just action. 

As soon, therefore, as men come to have any proper notion of 
a favour and of an injury ; as soon as they have any rational 
exercise of gratitude and of resentment ; so soon they must have 
the conception of justice and of injustice ; and if gratitude and 
resentment be natural to man, which Mr. Hume allows, the 
notion of justice must be no less natural. 

The notion of justice carries inseparably along with it, a per- 
ception of its moral obligation. For to say that such an action, 
is an act of justice, that it is due, that it ought to be done, that 
we are under a moral obligation to do it, are only different ways 
of expressing the same thing. It is true, that we perceive no 
high degree of moral worth in a merely just action, when it is 
not opposed by interest or passion ; but we perceive a high 
degree of turpitude and demerit in unjust actions, or in the 
omission of what justice requires. 

[Indeed, if there were no other argument to prove, that the 
obligation of justice is not solely derived from its utility to pro- 
cure what is agreeable either to ourselves or to society, this 
would be sufficient, That the very conception of justice implies its. 



348 ESSAY V. CHAP. V, 

obligation. The morality of justice is included in the very idea 
of it :] nor is it possible that the conception of justice can enter 
into the human mind, without carrying along with it the concep- 
tion of duty and moral obligation. Its obligation, therefore, is 
inseparable from its nature, and is not derived solely from its 
utility, either to ourselves or to society. 

XV. We may further observe, That as in all moral estimation, 
every action takes its denomination from the motive that produces 
it; so no action can properly be denominated an act of justice, 
unless it be done from a regard to justice. 

BUT If a man pays his debt, only that he may not be cast into 
prison, he is not a just man, because prudence, and not justice, 
is his motive. And if a man, from benevolence and charity, 
gives to another what is really due to him, but what he believes 
not to be due, this is not an act of justice in him, but of charity 
or benevolence, because it is not done from a motive of justice. 
These are self-evident truths ; nor is it less evident, that what a 
man does, merely to procure something agreeable, either to him- 
self or to others, is not an act of justice, nor has the merit of 
justice. 

Good music and good cookery have the merit of utility, in 
procuring what is agreeable both to ourselves and to society, but 
they never obtained among mankind the denomination of moral 
virtues. Indeed, if this author's system be well founded, great 
injustice has been done them on that account. 

XVI. I shall now make some observations upon the reasoning 
of this author, in proof of his favourite principle, That justice is 
not a natural but an artificial virtue ; or, as it is expressed in 
the " Enquiry," That public utility is the sole origin of justice, 
and that reflections on the beneficial consequences of this virtue 
are the sole foundation of its merit. 

1. It must be acknowledged, that this principle has a necessary 
connexion with his system concerning the foundation of all virtue; 
and therefore it is no wonder that he hath taken so much pains 
to support it ; for the whole system must stand or fall with it. 

If the dulce and the utile, that is, pleasure, and what is useful 
to procure pleasure, be the whole merit of virtue, justice can 
have no merit beyond its utility to procure pleasure. If, on the 
other hand, an intrinsic worth injustice, and demerit in injustice, 
be discerned by every man that hath a conscience ; if there be a 
natural principle in the constitution of man, by which justice is 
approved, and injustice disapproved and condemned, then the., 
whole of this laboured system must fall to the ground. 

2. We may observe, That as justice is directly opposed to 
injury, and as there are various ways in which a man may be 
injured, so there must be various branches of justice opposed to 
the different kinds oj injury. 



OF JUSTICE. o^q 

XVII. Six brandies of justice. — A man may be injured, first, 
in his person, by wounding, maiming or killing him ; secondly, 
in his family, by robbing him of his children, or any way injur- 
ing those he is bound to protect ; thirdly, in his liberty, by con- 
finement ; fourthly, in his reputation ; fifthly, in his goods or 
property; and, lastly, in the violation of contracts or engage- 
ments made with him. This enumeration, whether complete or 
not, is sufficient for the present purpose. 

The different branches of justice, opposed to these different 
kinds of injury, are commonly expressed by saying, that an 
innocent man has a right to the safety of his person and family, 
a right to his liberty and reputation, a right to his goods, and to 
fidelity to engagements made with him. To say that he has a 
right to these things, has precisely the same meaning as to say, 
that justice requires that he should be permitted to enjoy them, 
or that it is unjust to violate them. For injustice is the viola- 
tion of right, and justice is, to yield to every man what is his 
right. 

XVIII. [These things being understood as the simplest and 
most common ways of expressing the various branches of justice, 
we are to consider how far Mr. Hume's reasoning proves any or 
all of them to be artificial, or grounded solely upon public 
utility.] The last of them, fidelity to engagements, is to be the 
subject of the next chapter, and therefore I shall say nothing of 
it in this. 

The four first named, to wit, the right of an innocent man to 
the safety of his (1) person and (2) family, to his (3) liberty and 
(4) reputation, are, by the writers on jurisprudence, called natural 
rights of man, because they are grounded in the nature of man as 
a rational and moral agent, and are, by his Creator, committed to 
his care and keeping. By being called natural or innate, they 
are distinguished from acquired rights, which suppose some pre- 
vious act or deed of man by which they are acquired, whereas 
natural rights suppose nothing of this kind. 

When a man's natural rights are violated, he perceives intui- 
tively, and he feels, that he is injured. The feeling of his heart 
arises from the judgment of his understanding ; for if he did not 
believe that the hurt was intended, and unjustly intended, he would 
not have that feeling. He perceives that injury is done to himself, 
and that he has a right to redress. The natural principle of 
resentment is roused by the view of its proper object, and excites 
him to defend his right. Even the injurious person is conscious 
of his doing injury ; he dreads a just retaliation ; and if it be 
in the power of the injured person, he expects it as due and 
deserved. 

[That these sentiments spring up in the mind of man as 
naturally as his body grows to its proper stature ; that they are 



350 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 

not the birth of instruction, either of parents, priests, philoso- 
phers or politicians, but the pure growth of nature, cannot, I 
think, without effrontery, be denied.] We find them equally 
strong in the most savage and in the most civilized tribes of man- 
kind ; and nothing can weaken them but an inveterate habit of 
rapine and bloodshed, which benumbs the conscience, and turns 
men into wild beasts. 

The public good is very properly considered by the judge 
who punishes a private injury, but seldom enters into the thought 
of the injured person. In all criminal law, the redress due to 
the private sufferer is distinguished from that which is due to the 
public ; a distinction which could have no foundation, if the 
demerit of injustice arose solely from its hurting the public. And 
every man is conscious of a specific difference between the resent- 
ment he feels for an injury done to himself, and his indignation 
against a wrong done to the public. 

I think, therefore, it is evident, that, of the six branches of 
justice we mentioned, four are natural, in the strictest sense, 
being founded upon the constitution of man, and antecedent to 
all deeds and conventions of society ; so that, if there were but 
two men upon the earth, one might be unjust and injurious, and 
the other injured. 

XIX. But does Mr. Hume maintain the contrary ? 

To this question I answer, That his doctrine seems to imply it, 
but I hope he meant it not. 

He affirms in general, that justice is not a natural virtue; that 
it derives its origin solely from public utility, and that reflections 
on the beneficial consequences of this virtue are the sole founda- 
tion of its merit. He mentions no particular branch of justice 
as an exception to this general rule ; yet justice, in common lan- 
guage, and in all the writers on jurisprudence I am acquainted 
with, comprehends the four branches above mentioned. His 
doctrine, therefore, according to the common construction of 
words, extends to these four, as well as to the two other branches 
of justice. 

On the other hand, if we attend to his long and laboured proof 
of this doctrine, it appears evident, that he had in his eye only 
two particular branches of justice. No part of his reasoning 
applies to the other four. He seems, I know not why, to have 
taken up a confined notion of justice, and to have restricted it 
to a regard to property and fidelity and contracts. As to other 
branches he is silent. He nowhere says, that it is not naturally 
criminal to rob an innocent man of his life, of his children, of 
his liberty, or of his reputation ; and I am apt to think he never 
meant it. 

XX. Mr. Hobbes' system. — [The only philosopher 1 know who 
has had the assurance to maintain this, is Mr. Hobbes, who makes 



OF JUSTICE. g^j 

the state of nature to be a state of ivar, of every man against 
every man ; and of such a war in which every man has a right to 
do and to acquire whatever his power can, by any means, accom- 
plish ; that is, a state wherein neither right nor injury, justice 
nor injustice, can possibly exist.] 

Mr. Hume mentions this system of Hobbes, but without 
adopting it, though he allows it the authority of Cicero in its 
favour. 

He says in a note, " This fiction of a state of nature as a state 
of war was not first started by Mr. Hobbes, as is commonly ima- 
gined. Plato endeavours to refute an hypothesis very like it, in 
the second, third and fourth books, ' De Republica.' Cicero, 
on the contrary, supposes it certain and universally acknowledged, 
in the following passage, &c. : ' Pro Sextio,' 1. 42." 

The passage, which he quotes at large, from one of Cicero's 
" Orations," seems to me to require some straining to make it 
tally with the system of Mr. Hobbes. Be this as it may, Mr. 
Hume might have added, That Cicero, in his " Orations," like 
many other pleader s, sometimes says, not what he believed, but 
what was fit to support the cause of his client. That Cicero's 
opinion, with regard to the natural obligation of justice, was 
very different from that of Mr. Hobbes, and even from Mr. 
Hume's, is very well known. 

XXI. 3. As Mr. Hume, therefore, has said nothing to prove 
the four branches of justice which relate to the innate rights of 
men, to be artificial, or to derive their origin solely from public 
utility, I proceed to the fifth branch, which requires us not to 
invade another man's property. 

The right of property is not innate, but acquired. It is not 
grounded upon the constitution of man, but upon his actions. 
Writers on jurisprudence have explained its origin in a manner 
that may satisfy every man of common understanding. 

The earth is given to men in common for the purposes of life, 
by the bounty of Heaven. But, to divide it, and appropriate one 
part of its produce to one, another part to another, must be the 
work of men who have power and understanding given them, by 
which every man may accommodate himself without hurt to any 
other. 

B^F This common right of every man to what the earth pro- 
duces, before it be occupied and appropriated by others, was, by 
ancient moralists, very properly compared to the right which 
every citizen had to the public theatre, where every man that 
came might occupy an empty seat, and thereby acquire a right 
to it while the entertainment lasted ; but no man had a right to 
dispossess another. 

The earth is a great theatre, furnished by the Almighty, with 
perfect wisdom and goodness, for the entertainment and employ- 



352 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 

ment of all mankind. Here every man has a right to accommo- 
date himself as a spectator, and to perform his part as an actor, 
but without hurt to others. 

Pie who does so is a just man, and thereby entitled to some 
degree of moral approbation ; and he who not only does no hurt, 
but employs his power to do good, is a good man, and is thereby 
entitled to a higher degree of moral approbation. But he who 
jostles and molests his neighbour, who deprives him of any 
accommodation which his industry has provided without hurt to 
others, is unjust, and a proper object of resentment. 

It is true, therefore, that property has a beginning from the 
actions of men, occupying, and perhaps improving, by their 
industry, what was common by nature. It is true also, that 
before property exists, that branch of justice and injustice which 
regards property cannot exist. But it is also true, that where 
there are men, there will very soon be property of one kind or 
another, and consequently there will be that branch of justice 
which attends property as its guardian. 

XXII. There are two kinds of property which we may dis- 
tinguish. 

The first, is what must presently be consumed to sustain life ; 
the second, which is more permanent, is what may be laid up 
and stored for the supply of future wants. 

Some of the gifts of nature must be used and consumed by 
individuals for the daily support of life ; but they cannot be used 
till they be occupied and appropriated. If another person may, 
without injustice, rob me of what I have innocently occupied 
for present subsistence, the necessary consequence must be, that 
he may, without injustice, take away my life. 

A right to life implies a right to the necessary means of life. 
And that justice which forbids the taking away the life of an 
innocent man, forbids no less the taking from him the necessary 
means of life. He has the same right to defend the one as the 
other ; and nature inspires him with the same just resentment 
of the one injury as of the other. 

The natural right of liberty implies a right to such innocent 
labour as a man chooses, and to the fruit of that labour. To 
hinder another man's innocent labour, or to deprive him of the 
fruit of it, is an injustice of the same kind, and has the same 
effect as to put him in fetters or in prison, and is equally a just 
object of resentment. 

Thus, it appears, that some kind, or some degree, of property 
must exist wherever men exist, and that the right to such pro- 
perty is the necessary consequence of the natural right of men to 
life and liberty. 

It has been further observed, that God has made man a saga- 
cious and provident animal, led by his constitution not only to 



OF JUSTICE. g^g 

occupy and use what nature has provided for the supply of his 
present wants and necessities, but to foresee future wants, and to 
provide for them ; and that not only for himself, but for his 
family, his friends, and connexions. 

He therefore acts in perfect conformity to his nature, when he 
stores, of the fruit of his labour, what may afterwards be useful 
to himself or to others ; when he invents and fabricates utensils 
or machines by which his labour may be facilitated, and its pro- 
duce increased ; and when, by exchanging with his fellow-men 
commodities or labour, he accommodates both himself and them. 
These are the natural and innocent exertions of that understand- 
ing wherewith his Maker^has endowed him. He has therefore 
a right to exercise them, and to enjoy the fruit of them. Every 
man who impedes him in making such exertions, or deprives him 
of the fruit of them, is injurious and unjust, and an object of 
just resentment. 

MF Many brute-animals are led by instinct to provide for 
futurity, and to defend their store and their store-house against 
all invaders. There seems to be in man, before the use of reason, 
an instinct of the same kind. When reason and conscience grow 
up, they approve and justify this provident care, and condemn, 
as unjust, every invasion of others, that may frustrate it. 

XXIII. [Two instances of this provident sagacity seem to 
be peculiar to man. I mean (1) the invention of utensils and 
machines for facilitating labour, and (2) the making exchanges 
with his fellow-men for mutual benefit.] No tribe of men has 
been found so rude as not to practise these things in some 
degree. And I know no tribe of brutes that was ever observed 
to practise them. They neither invent nor use utensils or ma- 
chines, nor do they traffic by exchanges. 

[From these observations, I think it evident, that man, even in 
the state of nature, by his powers of body and mind, may acquire 
permanent property, or what we call riches, by which his own 
and his family's wants are more liberally supplied, and his power 
enlarged to requite his benefactors, to relieve objects of compas- 
sion, to make friends, and to defend his property against unjust 
invaders.] And we know from history, that men, who had no 
superior on earth, no connexion with any public beyond their 
own family, have acquired property, and had distinct notions of 
that justice and injustice, of which it is the object. 

Every man, as a reasonable creature, has a right to gratify his 
natural and innocent desires without hurt to others. No desire 
is more natural, or more reasonable, than that of supplying 
his wants. When this is done without hurt to any man, to 
hinder or frustrate his innocent labour, is an unjust violation of 
his natural liberty. Private utility leads a man to desire pro- 

2 a 



354 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 

perty, and to labour for it ; and his right to it is only a right to 
labour for his own benefit. 

XXIV. [That public utility is the sole origin, even of that 
branch of justice which regards property, is so far from being 
true, that when men confederate and constitute a public, under 
laws and government, the right of each individual to his property 
is, by that confederation, abridged and limited.'] In the state of 
nature, every man's property was solely at his own disposal, 
because he had no superior. In civil society, it must be subject 
to the laws of the society. He gives up to the public part of 
that right which he had in the state of nature, as the price of 
that protection and security which he receives from civil society. 
In the state of nature, he was sole judge in his own cause, and 
had a right to defend his property, his liberty, and life, as far as 
his power reached. In the state of civil society, he must submit 
to the judgment of the society, and acquiesce in its sentence, 
though he should conceive it to be unjust. 

What was said above, of the natural right every man has to 
acquire permanent property, and to dispose of it, must be under- 
stood with this condition, that no other man be thereby deprived 
of the necessary means of life. The right of an innocent man to 
the necessaries of life, is, in its nature, superior to that which 
the rich man has to his riches, even though they be honestly 
acquired. The use of riches, or permanent property, is to sup- 
ply future and casual wants, which ought to yield to present and 
certain necessity. 

1^° As, in a family, justice requires that the children who are 
unable to labour, and those who, by sickness, are disabled, 
should have their necessities supplied out of the common stock, 
so, in the great family of God, of which all mankind are the 
children, justice, I think, as well as charity, requires, that the 
necessities of those who, by the providence of God, are disabled 
from supplying themselves, should be supplied from what might 
otherwise be stored for future wants. 

From this it appears, that the right of acquiring and that of 
disposing of property, may be subject to limitations and restric- 
tions, even in the state of nature, and much more in the state of 
civil society, in which the public has what writers in jurispru- 
dence call an eminent dominion over the property, as well as over 
the lives of the subjects, as far as the public good requires. 

XXV. [If these principles be well founded, Mr. Hume's 
arguments to prove that justice is an artificial virtue, or that its 
public utility is the sole foundation of its merit, may be easily 
answered.] 

He supposes, first, a state in which nature has bestowed on 
the human race such abundance of external goods, that every 



of justice. 355 

man, without care or industry, finds himself provided of what- 
ever he can wish or desire. It is evident, says he, that in such 
a state, the cautious, jealous virtue of justice would never once 
have been dreamed of. 

It may be observed, first, that this argument applies only to 
one of the six branches of justice before mentioned. The other 
five are not in the least affected by it ; and the reader will easily 
perceive that this observation applies to almost all his arguments, 
so that it needs not be repeated. 

Secondly, all that this argument proves is, that a state of the 
human race may he conceived wherein no property exists, and 
where, of consequence, there can be no exercise of that branch 
of justice which respects property. But does it follow from 
this, that where property exists, and must exist, that no regard 
ought to be had to it ? 

He next supposes that the necessities of the human race con- 
tinuing the same as at present, the mind is so enlarged with 
friendship and generosity, that every man feels as much tender- 
ness and concern for the interest of every man, as for his own. 
It seems evident, he says, that the use of justice would be sus- 
pended by such an extensive benevolence, nor would the divi- 
sions and barriers of property and obligation have ever been 
thought of. 

I answer, the conduct which this extensive benevolence leads 
to, is either perfectly consistent with justice, or it is not. First, 
if there be any case where this benevolence would lead us to do 
injustice, the use of justice is not suspended. Its obligation is 
superior to that of benevolence; and, to show benevolence to 
one, at the expense of injustice to another, is immoral. Secondly, 
supposing no such case could happen, the use of justice would 
not be suspended, because by it we must distinguish good offices 
to which we had a right, from those to which we had no right, 
and which therefore require a return of gratitude. Thirdly, 
supposing the use of justice to be suspended, as it must be in 
every ease where it cannot be exercised, will it follow, that its 
obligation is suspended, where there is access to exercise it ? 

A third supposition is, the reverse of the first, that a societ} 7 
falls into extreme want of the necessaries of life : the question is 
put, whether, in such a case, an equal partition of bread, without 
regard to private property, though effected by power, and even 
by violence, would be regarded as criminal and injurious ? And 
the author conceives, that this would be a suspension of the strict 
laws of justice. 

I answer, that such an equal partition as Mr. Hume mentions, 
is so far from being criminal or injurious, that justice requires 
it ; and surely that cannot be a suspension of the laws of justice, 
which is an act of justice. [All that the strictest justice requires 

2 A 2 



356 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 

in such a case, is, that the man whose life is preserved at the 
expense of another, and without his consent, should indemnify 
him when he is able. His case is similar to that of a debtor who 
is insolvent, without any fault on his part. Justice requires that 
he should be forborn till he is able to pay.] It is strange that 
Mr. Hume should think that an action, neither criminal nor 
injurious, should be a suspension of the laws of justice. This 
seems to me a contradiction, for justice and injury are contra- 
dictory terms. 

The next argument is thus expressed : " When any man, even 
in political society, renders himself, by crimes, obnoxious to the 
public, he is punished in his goods and person ; that is, the ordi- 
nary rules of justice are, with regard to him, suspended for a 
moment, and it becomes equitable to inflict on him, what other- 
wise he could not suffer without wrong or injury." 

This argument, like the former, refutes itself. For that an 
action should be a suspension of the rules of justice, and at the 
same time equitable, seems to me a contradiction. It is possible 
that equity may interfere with the letter of human laws, because 
all the cases that may fall under them cannot be foreseen ; but 
that equity should interfere with justice is impossible. It is 
strange that Mr. Hume should think, that justice requires that 
a criminal should be treated in the same way as an innocent 
man. 

Another argument is taken from public war. What is it, says 
he, but a suspension of justice among the warring parties ? The 
laws of war, which then succeed to those of equity and justice, 
are rules calculated for the advantage and utility of that parti- 
cular state in which men are now placed. 

I answer, when war is undertaken for self-defence, or for repa- 
ration of intolerable injuries, justice authorises it. The laws of 
war, which have been described by many judicious moralists, are 
all drawn from the fountain of justice and equity; and every 
thing contrary to justice, is contrary to the laws of war. That 
justice, which prescribes one rule of conduct to a master, another 
to a servant ; one to a parent, another to a child ; prescribes also 
one rule of conduct towards a friend, another towards an enemy. 
I do not understand what Mr. Hume means by the advantage 
and utility of a state of war, for which he says the laws of war 
are calculated, and succeed to those of justice and equity. I 
know no laws of war that are not calculated for justice and 
equity. 

The next argument is this, Were there a species of creatures 
intermingled with men, which, though rational, were possessed 
of such inferior strength, both of body and mind, that they were 
incapable of all resistance, and could never, upon the highest 
provocation, make us feel the effects of their resentment ; the 



of justice. 357 

necessary consequence, I think, is, that we should be bound, by 
the laws of humanity, to give gentle usage to these creatures, but 
should not, properly speaking, lie under any restraint of justice 
with regard to them, nor could they possess any right or pro- 
perty, exclusive of such arbitrary lords. 

If Mr. Hume had not owned this sentiment as a consequence 
of his " Theory of Morals," I should have thought it very un- 
charitable to impute it to him. However, we may judge of the 
Theory by its avowed consequence. For there cannot be better 
evidence, that a theory of morals, or of any particular virtue, is 
false, than when it subverts the practical rules of morals. [This 
defenceless species of rational creatures is doomed by Mr. Hume 
to have no rights. Why ? Because they have no power to defend 
themselves. Is not this to say, that right has its origin from 
power ; which, indeed, was the doctrine of Mr. Hobbes.] And 
to illustrate this doctrine, Mr. Hume adds, that as no inconve- 
nience ever results from the exercise of a power, so firmly estab- 
lished in nature, the restraints of justice and property being 
totally useless, could never have place in so unequal a confede- 
racy ; and, to the same purpose, he says, that the female part of 
our own species, owe the share they have in the rights of society, 
to the power which their address and their charms give them. If 
this be sound morals, Mr. Hume's " Theory of Justice" may 
be true. 

We may here observe, that though, in other places, Mr. Hume 
founds the obligation of justice upon its utility to ourselves, or 
to others, it is here founded solely upon utility to ourselves. For 
surely to be treated with justice would be highly useful to the 
defenceless species he here supposes to exist. But as no incon- 
venience to ourselves can ever result from our treatment of them, 
he concludes that justice would be useless, and therefore can 
have no place. Mr. Hobbes could have said no more. 

XXVI. This argument would prove all social virtues to be 
artificial, as well as justice. — [He supposes, in the last place, a 
state of human nature, wherein all society and intercourse is cut 
off between man and man. It is evident, he says, that so soli- 
tary a being would be as much incapable of justice as of social 
discourse and conversation.] 

And would not so solitary a being be as incapable of friend- 
ship, generosity, and compassion, as of justice ? If this argu- 
ment prove justice to be an artificial virtue, it will, with equal 
force, prove every social virtue to be artificial. 

These are the arguments which Mr. Hume has advanced in his 
Enquiry, in the first part of a long section upon justice. 

XXVII. In the second part, the arguments are not so clearly 
distinguished, nor can they be easily collected. I shall offer 
some remarks upon what seems most specious in this second part. 



358 ESSAY V. CHAP. V. 

He begins with observing, " That, if we examine the particu- 
lar laws by which justice is directed and property determined, 
they present us with the same conclusion. The good of man- 
kind is the only object of all those laws and regulations." 

It is not easy to perceive where the stress of this argument lies. 
The good of mankind is the object of all the laws and regulations 
by zvhich justice is directed and property determined ; therefore 
justice is not a natural virtue, but has its origin solely from 
public utility, and- its beneficial consequences are the sole foun- 
dation of its merit. 

Some step seems to be wanting to connect the antecedent pro- 
position with the conclusion, which, I think, must be one or 
other of these two propositions ; first, All the rules of justice 
tend to public utility ; or, secondly, Public utility is the only 
standard of justice, from which alone all its rules must be 
deduced. 

If the argument be, That justice must have its origin solely 
from public utility, because all its rules tend to public utility, 
I cannot admit the consequence ; nor can Mr. Hume admit it 
without overturning his own system. For the rules of benevo- 
lence and humanity do all tend to the public utility, and yet in 
his system they have another foundation in human nature ; so 
likewise may the rules of justice. 

I am apt to think, therefore, that the argument is to be taken in 
the last sense, That public utility is the only standard of justice, 
from which all its rules must be deduced ; and therefore justice 
has its origin solely from public utility. 

This seems to be Mr. Hume's meaning, because, in what fol- 
lows, he observes, That, in order to establish laws for the regu- 
lation of property, we must be acquainted with the nature and 
situation of man; must reject appearances which maybe false, 
though specious ; and must search for those rules which are, on 
the whole, most useful and beneficial ; and endeavours to show, 
that the established rules which regard property are more for the 
public good than the system, either of those religious fanatics 
of the last age, who held that saints only should inherit the 
earth ; or of those political fanatics who claimed an equal divi- 
sion of property. 

XXVIII. Obvious defect in Mr. Hume's reasoning as to the 
standard of justice generally. — We see here, as before, that though 
Mr. Hume's conclusion respects justice in general, his argument 
is confined to one branch of justice, to wit, the right of property ; 
and it is well known that to conclude from a part to the whole 
is not good reasoning. 

Besides, the proposition from which his conclusion is drawn 
cannot be granted, either with regard to property, or with regard 
to the other branches of justice. 



of justice. 359 

[We endeavoured before to show that property, though not 
an innate but an acquired right, may be acquired in the state 
of nature, and agreeably to the laws of nature ; and that this 
right has not its origin from human laws, made for the pub- 
lic good, though, when men enter into political society, it may 
and ought to be regulated by those laws.] 

If there were but two men upon the face of the earth, of ripe 
faculties, each might have his own property, and might know 
his right to defend it, and his obligation not to invade the pro- 
perty of the other. He would have no need to have recourse to 
reasoning from public good, in order to know when he was in- 
jured, either in his property, or in any of his natural rights, or 
to know what rules of justice he ought to observe towards his 
neighbour. 

The' simple rule of not doing to his neighbour what he would 
think wrong to be done to himself, would lead him to the know- 
ledge of every branch of justice, without the consideration of 
public good, or of laws and statutes made to promote it. 

It is not true, therefore, that public utility is the only stand- 
ard of justice, and that the rules of justice can be deduced only 
from their public utility. 

XXIX. Standard of justice among the ancients. — Aristides, 
and the people of Athens, had surely another notion of justice, 
when he pronounced the counsel of Themistocles, which was 
communicated to him only, to be highly useful, but unjust; 
and the assembly, upon this authority, rejected the proposal 
unheard. These honest citizens, though subject to no laws but 
of their own making, far from making utility the standard of 
justice, made justice to be the standard of utility. 

" What is a mans property ? Anything which it is lawful 
for him, and for him alone, to use. But what rule have we by 
which we can distinguish these objects ? Here we must have 
recourse to statutes, customs, precedents, analogies, &c." 

Does not this imply that, in the state of nature, there can be 
no distinction of property ? If so, Mr. Hume's state of nature 
is the same with that of Mr. Hobbes. 

It is true, that when men become members of a political so- 
ciety, they subject their property, as well as themselves, to the 
laws, and must either acquiesce in what the laws determine, or 
leave the society. But justice, and even that particular branch 
of it which our author always supposes to be the whole, is ante- 
cedent to political societies and to their laws ; and the intention 
of these laws is, to be the guardians of justice, and to redress 
injuries. 

As all the works of men are imperfect, human laws may be 
unjust; which could never be, if justice had its origin from law, 
as the author seems here to insinuate. 



3(30 ESSAY V. CHAI\ V. 

Justice requires that a member of a state should submit to 
the laws of the state when they require nothing unjust or im- 
pious. There may, therefore, be statutory rights and statutory 
crimes. A statute may create a right which did not before 
exist, or make that to be criminal which was not so before. But 
this could never be, if there were not an antecedent obligation 
upon the subject to obey the statutes. In like manner, the 
command of a master may make that to be the servant's duty 
which, before, was not his duty, and the servant may be charge- 
able with injustice if he disobeys, because he was under an 
antecedent obligation to obey his master in lawful things. 

We grant, therefore, that particular laws may direct justice 
and determine property, and sometimes even upon very slight 
reasons and analogies, or even for no other reason but that it is 
better that such a point should be determined by law than that 
it should be left a dubious subject of contention. But this, far 
from presenting us with the conclusion which the author would 
establish, presents us with a contrary conclusion. For all these 
particular laws and statutes derive their whole obligation and 
force from a general rule of justice antecedent to them, to wit, 
that subjects ought to obey the laws of their country. 

XXX. The author compares the rules of justice with the 
most frivolous superstitions, and can find no foundation for moral 
sentiment in the one more than in the other, excepting that jus- 
tice is requisite to the well-being and existence of society. 

It is very true, that, if we examine mine and thine by the 
senses of sight, smell, or touch, or scrutinize them by the sciences 
of medicine, chemistry, or physics, we perceive no difference. 
. But the reason is, that none of these senses or sciences are the 
judges of right or wrong, or can give any conception of them, 
any more than the ear of colour, or the eye of sound. Every 
man of common understanding, and every savage, when he 
applies his moral faculty to those objects, perceives a difference 
as clearly as he perceives daylight. When that sense or faculty 
is not consulted, in vain do we consult every other, in a question 
of right and wrong. 

To perceive that justice tends to the good of mankind, would 
lay no moral obligation upon us to be just, unless we be con- 
scious of a moral obligation to do what tends to the good of man- 
kind. If such a moral obligation be admitted, why may we not 
admit a stronger obligation to do injury to no man ? The last 
obligation is as easily conceived as the first, and there is as clear 
evidence of its existence in human nature. 

XXXI. The last argument is a dilemma, and is thus ex- 
pressed : "The dilemma seems obvious. As justice evidently 
tends to promote public utility, and to support civil society, the 
sentiment of justice is either derived from our reflecting on that 



OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. gQ\ 

tendency, or, like hunger, thirst, and other appetites, resentment, 
love of life, attachment to offspring, and other passions, arises 
from a simple original instinct in the human breast, which nature 
has implanted for like salutary purposes. If the latter be the 
case, it follows, that property, which is the object of justice, is 
also distinguished by a simple original instinct, and is not ascer- 
tained by any argument or reflection. But who is there that 
ever heard of such an instinct," &c. 

I doubt not but Mr. Hume has heard of a principle called con- 
science, which nature has implanted in the human breast. Whe- 
ther he will call it a simple original instinct, I know not, as he 
gives that name to all our appetites and to all our passions. 
From this principle, I think, we derive the sentiment of justice. 

iST As the eye not only gives us the conception of colours, 
but makes us perceive one body to have one colour, and another 
body another ; and as our reason not only gives us the concep- 
tion of true and false, but makes us perceive one proposition to 
be true and another to be false ; so our conscience, or moral 
faculty, not only gives us the conception of honest and dishonest, 
but makes us perceive one kind of conduct to be honest, another 
to be dishonest. By this faculty we perceive a merit in honest 
conduct, and a demerit in dishonest, without regard to public 
utility. 

That these sentiments are not the effect of education or of ac- 
quired habits, we have the same reason to conclude, as that our 
perception of what is true and what false, is not the effect of 
education or of acquired habits. There have been men who 
professed to believe, that there is no ground to assent to any one 
proposition rather than its contrary ; but I never yet heard of a 
man who had the effrontery to profess himself to be under no 
obligation of honour or honesty, of truth or justice, in his deal- 
ings with men. 

Nor does this faculty of conscience require innate ideas of pro- 
perty, and of the various ways of acquiring and transferring it, 
or innate ideas of kings and senators, of pretors and chancellors, 
and juries, any more than the faculty of seeing requires innate 
ideas of colours, or than the faculty of reasoning requires innate 
ideas of cones, cylinders, and spheres. 



CHAPTER VI. 

OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. 

I. Promise and contract different. — The obligation of con- 
tracts and promises is a matter so sacred, and of such consequence 
to human society, that speculations which have a tendency to 



3(32 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 

weaken that obligation, and to perplex men's notions on a sub- 
ject so plain and so important, ought to meet with the disappro- 
bation of all honest men. 

Some such speculations, I think, we have in the third volume 
of Mr. Hume's " Treatise of Human Nature," and in his " En- 
quiry into the Principles of Morals ; " and my design in this 
chapter is, to offer some observations on the nature of a contract 
or promise, and on two passages of that author on this subject. 

I am far from saying or thinking, that Mr. Hume meant to 
weaken men's obligations to honesty and fair dealing, or that he 
had not a sense of these obligations himself. It is not the man 
I impeach, but his writings. Let us think of the first as cha- 
ritably as we can, while we freely examine the import and ten- 
dency of the last. 

Although the nature of a contract and of a promise is perfectly 
understood by all men of common understanding, yet, by atten- 
tion to the operations of mind signified by these words, we shall 
be better enabled to judge of the metaphysical subtleties which 
have been raised about them. A promise and a contract differ 
so little in what concerns the present disquisition, that the same 
reasoning (as Mr. Hume justly observes) extends to both. [In 
a promise, one party only comes under the obligation, the other 
acquires a right to the prestation promised. But we give the 
name of a contract to a transaction in which each party comes 
under an obligation to the other, and each reciprocally acquires 
a right to what is promised by the other.] 

II. Definition of a contract. — The Latin word pactum seems to 
extend to both ; and the definition given of it in the civil law, 
and borrowed from Ulpian, is, " Duorum pluriumve in idem pla- 
citum consensus." Titius, a modern civilian, has endeavoured to 
make this definition more complete, by adding the words, " Obli- 
gations licite constituendse vel tollendge causa datus." With this 
addition, the definition is, That [a contract is the consent of two 
or more persons in the same thing, given with the intention of 
constituting or dissolving lawfully some obligation.] 

This definition is perhaps as good as any other that can be 
given ; yet, I believe, every man will acknowledge, that it gives 
him no clearer or more distinct notion of a contract than he had 
before. If it is considered as a strictly logical definition, I 
believe some objections might be made to it ; but I forbear to 
mention them, because I believe that similar objections might be 
made to any definition of a contract that can be given. 

Nor can it be inferred from this, that the notion of a contract 
is not perfectly clear in every man come to years of understand- 
ing. For this is common to many operations of the mind, that 
although we understand them perfectly, and are in no danger of 
confounding them with any tiling else; vel we cannot define 



OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. gQg 

them according to the rules of logic, by a genus and a specific 
difference. And when we attempt it, we rather darken than 
give light to them. 

Is there any thing more distinctly understood by all men, than 
what it is to see, to hear, to remember, to judge ? Yet it is the 
most difficult thing in the world to define these operations ac- 
cording to the rules of logical definition. But it is not more 
difficult than it is useless. 

Sometimes philosophers attempt to define them ; but, if we 
examine their definitions, we shall find, that they amount to no 
more than giving one synonymous word for another, and com- 
monly a worse for a better. So when we define a contract, by 
calling it a consent, a convention, an agreement, what is this but 
giving a synonymous word for it, and a word that is neither more 
expressive nor better understood ? 

gSF One boy has a top, another a scourge ; says the first to 
the other, " If you will lend me your scourge as long as I can 
keep up my top with it, you shall next have the top as long as 
you can keep it up." " Agreed," says the other. This is a con- 
tract perfectly understood by both parties, though they never 
heard of the definition given by Ulpian or by Titius. And each 
of them knows, that he is injured if the other breaks the bar- 
gain, and that he does wrong if he breaks it himself. 

III. [The operations of the human mind may be divided into 
two classes, the solitary and the social. As promises and con- 
tracts belong to the last class, it may be proper to explain 
this division.]* 

I call those operations solitary, which may be performed by a 
man in solitude, without intercourse with any other intelligent 
being. 

I call those operations social, which necessarily imply social 
intercourse with some other intelligent being who bears a part in 
them. 

A man may see, and hear, and remember, and judge, and rea- 
son ; he may deliberate and form purposes, and execute them, 
without the intervention of any other intelligent being. They 
are solitary acts. But when he asks a question for information, 
when he testifies a fact, when he gives a command to his servant, 
when he makes a promise, or enters into a contract, these are 
social acts of mind, and can have no existence without the inter- 
vention of some other intelligent being, who acts a part in them. 
Between the operations of the mind which, for want of a more 
proper name, I have called solitary, and those I have called social, 
there is this very remarkable distinction, that, in the solitary, 
the expression of them by words, or any other sensible sign, is 

* Vide " Essays on the Intellectual Powers," Essay I. chap, viii., where 
the arguments used in this section are given more at length. 



3(34 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 

accidental. They may exist, and be complete, without being 
expressed, without being known to any other person. But, in 
the social operations, the expression is essential. They cannot 
exist without being expressed by words or signs, and known to 
the other party. 

If nature had not made man capable of such social operations 
of mind, and furnished him with a language to express them, he 
might think, and reason, and deliberate, and will ; he might have 
desires and aversions, joy and sorrow ; in a word, he might exert 
all those operations of mind which the writers in logic and pneu- 
matology have so copiously described ; but, at the same time, 
he would still be a solitary being, even when in a crowd ; it w T ould 
be impossible for him to put a question, or give a command, to 
ask a favour, or testify a fact, to make a promise or a bargain. 

I take it to be the common opinion of philosophers, that the 
social operations of the human mind are not specifically different 
from the solitary, and that they are only various modifications 
or compositions of our solitary operations, and may be resolved 
into them. 

It is for this reason, probably, that, in enumerating the opera- 
tions of the mind, the solitary only are mentioned, and no notice 
at all taken of the social, though they are familiar to every man, 
and have names in all languages. 

I apprehend, however, it will be found extremely difficult, if 
not impossible, to resolve our social operations into any modifi- 
cation or composition of the solitary : and that an attempt to do 
this w T ould prove as ineffectual as the attempts that have been 
made to resolve all our social affections into the selfish. The 
social operations appear to be as simple in their nature as the 
solitary. They are found in every individual of the species, 
even before the use of reason. 

The power which man has of holding social intercourse with 
his kind, by asking and refusing, threatening and supplicating, 
commanding and obeying, testifying and promising, must either 
be a distinct faculty given by our Maker, and a part of our con- 
stitution, like the powers of seeing, and hearing, or it must be a 
human invention. If men have invented this art of social inter- 
course, it must follow, that every individual of the species must 
have invented it for himself. It cannot be taught, for though 
when once carried to a certain pitch, it may be improved by 
teaching ; yet it is impossible it can begin in that way, because 
all teaching supposes a social intercourse and language already 
established between the teacher and the learner. This inter- 
course must, from the very first, be carried on by sensible signs ; 
for the thoughts of other men can be discovered in no other way. 
I think it is likewise evident, that this intercourse, in its begin- 
ning, at least, must be carried on by natural signs, whose mean- 



OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. 3(35 

ing is understood by both parties, previous to all compact or 
agreement. For there can be no compact without signs, nor 
without social intercourse. 

I apprehend, therefore, that the social intercourse of mankind, 
consisting of those social operations which I have mentioned, is 
the exercise of a faculty appropriated to that purpose, which is 
the gift of God, no less than the powers of seeing and hearing. 
And that, in order to carry on this intercourse, God has given 
to man a natural language, by which his social operations are 
expressed, and, without which, the artificial languages of articu- 
late sounds, and of writing, could never have been invented by 
human art. 

The signs in this natural language are looks, changes of the 
features, modulations of the voice, and gestures of the body. 
All men understand this language without instruction, and all 
men can use it in some degree. But they are most expert in 
it who use it most. It makes a great part of the language of 
savages, and therefore they are more expert in the use of natural 
signs than the civilized. 

@§F The language of dumb persons is mostly formed of natural 
signs ; and they are all great adepts in this language of nature. 
All that we call action and pronunciation, in the most perfect 
orator, and the most admired actor, is nothing else but super- 
adding the language of nature to the language of articulate 
sounds. The pantomimes among the Romans carried it to the 
highest pitch of perfection. For they could act part of comedies 
and tragedies in dumb-show, so as to be understood, not only by 
those who were accustomed to this entertainment, but by all the 
strangers that came to Rome, from all the corners of the earth. 

For it may be observed of this natural language, (and no- 
thing more clearly demonstrates it to be a part of the human 
constitution,) that although it require practice and study to 
enable a man to express his sentiments by it in the most perfect 
manner ; yet it requires neither study nor practice in the spec- 
tator to understand it. The knowledge of it was before latent 
in the mind, and we no sooner see it, than we immediately recog- 
nise it, as we do an acquaintance whom we had long forgot, and 
could not have described ; but no sooner do we see him, than we 
know for certain that he is the very man. 

This knowledge, in all mankind, of the natural signs of men's 
thoughts and sentiments, is indeed so like to reminiscence, that 
it seems to have led Plato to conceive all human knowledge to 
be of that kind. 

It is not by reasoning, that all mankind know, that an open 
countenance, and a placid eye, is a sign of amity ; that a con- 
tracted brow, and a fierce look, is the sign of anger. It is not 
from reason that we learn to know the natural signs of consent- 



366 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 

ing and refusing, of affirming and denying, of threatening and 
supplicating. 

No man can perceive any necessary connexion between the 
signs of such operations, and the things signified by them. But 
we are so formed by the Author of our nature, that the ope- 
rations themselves become visible, as it were, by their natural 
signs. This knowledge resembles reminiscence, in this respect, 
that it is immediate. We form the conclusion with great assur- 
ance, without knowing any premises from which it may be drawn 
by reasoning. 

[It would lead us too far from the intention of the present 
inquiry, to consider more particularly, in what degree the social 
intercourse is natural, and a part of our constitution ; how far 
it is of human invention.] 

It is sufficient to observe, that this intercourse of human 
minds, by which their thoughts and sentiments are exchanged, 
and their souls mingle together as it were, is common to the 
whole species from infancy. 

Like our other powers, its first beginnings are weak, and 
scarcely perceptible. But it is a certain fact, that we can per- 
ceive some communication of sentiments between the nurse and 
her nursling, before it is a month old. And I doubt not, but 
that, if both had grown out of the earth, and had never seen 
another human face, they would be able in a few years to con- 
verse together. 

There appears indeed to be some degree of social intercourse 
among brute-animals, and between some of them and man. A 
dog exults in the caresses of his master, and is humbled at his 
displeasure. [But there are two operations of the social kind, 
of which the brute-animals seem to be altogether incapable. 
They can neither plight their veracity by testimony, nor their 
fidelity by any engagement or promise.] If nature had made 
them capable of these operations, they would have had a lan- 
guage to express them by, as man has : but of this we see no 
appearance. 

A fox is said to use stratagems, but he cannot lie ; because he 
cannot give his testimony, or plight his veracity. A dog is said 
to be faithful to his master ; but no more is meant but that he 
is affectionate, for he never came under any engagement. I see 
no evidence that any brute-animal is capable of either giving 
testimony, or making a promise. 

A dumb man cannot speak any more than a fox or a dog ; but 
he can give his testimony by signs as early in life as other men 
can do by words. He knows what a lie is as early as other men, 
and hates it as much. He can plight his faith, and is sensible of 
the obligation of a promise or contract.* 

[It is, therefore, a prerogative of man, that he can communi- 



OF THE NATURE AND OBLIGATION OF A CONTRACT. gQ^ 

cate his knowledge of facts by testimony, and enter into engage- 
ments by promise or contract.] God has given him these powers 
by a part of his constitution, which distinguishes him from 
all brute-animals. And whether they are original powers, or 
resolvable into other original powers, it is evident that they 
spring up in the human mind at an early period of life, and 
are found in every individual of the species, whether savage or 
civilized. 

IV. These prerogative powers of man, like all his other 
powers, must be given for some end, and for a good end. And if we 
consider a little farther the economy of nature, in relation to this 
part of the human constitution, we shall perceive the wisdom of 
nature in the structure of it, and discover clearly our duty in 
consequence of it. 

It is evident, in the first place, that if no credit was given to 
testimony, if there w r as no reliance upon promises, they would 
answer no end at all, not even that of deceiving. 

Secondly, supposing men disposed by some principle in their 
nature to rely on declarations and promises ; yet if men found 
in experience, that there was no fidelity on the other part in 
making and in keeping them, no man of common understanding 
would trust to them, and so they would become useless. 

Hence it appears, thirdly, that this power of giving testimony, 
and of promising, can answer no end in society, unless there be 
a considerable degree, both of fidelity on the one part, and of 
trust on the other. These two must stand or fall together, and 
one of them cannot possibly subsist without the other. 

Fourthly, it may be observed, that fidelity in declarations and 
promises, and its counter-part, trust and reliance upon them, 
form a system of social intercourse, the most amiable, the most 
useful, that can be among men. Without fidelity and trust, 
there can be no human society. There never was a society, even 
of savages, nay, even of robbers or pirates, in which there was 
not a great degree of veracity and of fidelity among themselves. 
Without it man would be the most dissocial animal that God has 
made. His state would be in reality what Hobbes conceived the 
state of nature to be, a state of war of every man against every 
man ; nor could this war ever terminate in peace. 

It may be observed, in the fifth place, that man is evidently 
made for living in society. His social affections show this as 
evidently as that the eye was made for seeing. His social ope- 
rations, particularly those of testifying and promising, make it 
no less evident. 

V. Contracts and promises have a foundation in nature. — 
[From these observations it follows, that if no provision were 
made by nature, to engage men to fidelity in declarations and 
promises, human nature would be a contradiction to itself, made 



3Qg ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 

for an end, yet without the necessary means of attaining it.] As 
if the species had been furnished with good eyes, but without 
the power of opening their eye-lids. There are no blunders 
of this kind in the works of God. Wherever there is an end 
intended, the means are admirably fitted for the attainment of 
it ; and so we find it to be in the case before us. 

For we see that children, as soon as they are capable of under- 
standing declarations and promises, are led by their constitution 
to rely upon them. They are no less led by constitution to 
veracity and candour, on their own part. Nor do they ever 
deviate from this road of truth and sincerity, until corrupted by 
bad example and bad company. This disposition to sincerity 
in themselves, and to give credit to others, whether we call it 
instinct, or whatever name we give it, must be considered as the 
effect of their constitution. 

[So that the things essential to human society, I mean good 
faith on the one part, and trust on the other, are formed by 
nature in the minds of children, before they are capable of know- 
ing their utility, or being influenced by considerations either of 
duty or interest.] 

When we grow up so far as to have the conception of a right 
and a wrong in conduct, the turpitude of lying, falsehood, and 
dishonesty, is discerned, not by any train of reasoning, but by 
an immediate perception. For we see that every man disapproves 
it in others, even those who are conscious of it in themselves. 

Every man thinks himself injured and ill used, and feels re- 
sentment when he is imposed upon by it. Every man takes it 
as a reproach when falsehood is imputed to him. These are the 
clearest evidences that all men disapprove of falsehood, when 
their judgment is not biassed. 

I know of no evidence that has been given of any nation so 
rude as not to have these sentiments. It is certain that dumb 
people have them, and discover them about the same period of 
life in which they appear in those who speak. And it may rea- 
sonably be thought that dumb persons, at that time of life, have 
had as little advantage, with regard to morals, from their educa- 
tion, as the greatest savages. 

Every man come to years of reflection, when he pledges his 
veracity or fidelity, thinks he has a right to be credited, and is 
affronted if he is not. But there cannot be a shadow of right to 
be credited, unless there be an obligation to good faith. For 
right on one hand, necessarily implies obligation on the other. 

When we see that in the most savage state that ever was 
known of the human race, men have always lived in societies 
greater or less, this of itself is a proof from fact, that they have 
had that sense of their obligation to fidelity, without which no 
human society can subsist. 



OF THE NATURE OF A CONTRACT. 3Q9 

From these observations, I think, it appears very evident, that 
as fidelity on one part, and trust on the other, are essential to 
that intercourse of men, which we call human society ; so the 
Author of our nature has made wise provision for perpetuating 
them among men, in that degree that is necessary to human 
society in all the different periods of human life, and in all the 
stages of human improvement and degeneracy. 

In early years we have an innate disposition to them. In riper 
years we feel our obligation to fidelity as much as to any moral 
duty whatsoever. 

VI. [Nor is it necessary to mention the collateral inducements 
to this virtue, from considerations of prudence, which are ob- 
vious to every man that reflects.] Such as, that it creates trust, 
the most effectual engine of human power ; that it requires no 
artifice or concealment ; dreads no detection ; that it inspires 
courage and magnanimity, and is the natural ally of every vir- 
tue ; so that there is no virtue whatsoever to which our natural 
obligation appears more strong or more apparent. 

An observation or two with regard to the nature of a contract, 
will be sufficient for the present purpose. 

It is obvious that the prestation promised must be understood 
by both parties. One party engages to do such a thing, another 
accepts of this engagement. An engagement to do, one does 
not know what, can neither be made nor accepted. It is no less 
obvious that a contract is a voluntary transaction. 

But it ought to be observed that the will, which is essential to 
a contract, is only a will to engage, or to become bound. We 
must beware of confounding this will, with a will to perform 
what we have engaged. The last can signify nothing else than 
an intention and fixed purpose to do what we have engaged to 
do. The will to become bound, and to confer a right upon the 
other party, is indeed the very essence of a contract ; but the 
purpose of fulfilling our engagement is no part of the contract 
at all. 

A purpose is a solitary act of mind, which lays no obligation 
on the person, nor confers any right on another. A fraudulent 
person may contract with a fixed purpose of not performing his 
engagement. But this purpose makes no change with regard to 
his obligation. He is as much bound as the honest man, who 
contracts with a fixed purpose of performing. 

As the contract is binding without any regard to the purpose, 
so there may be a purpose without any contract. A purpose is 
no contract, even when it is declared to the person for whose be- 
nefit it is intended. I may say to a man, I intend to do such a 
thing for your benefit, but I come under no engagement. Every 
man understands the meaning of this speech, and sees no con- 
tradiction in it : whereas, if a purpose declared were the same 

2 B 



370 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 

thing with a contract, such a speech would be a contradiction, 
and would be the same as if one should say, I promise to do sucli 
a thing, but I do not promise. 

All this is so plain to every man of common sense, that it 
would have been unnecessary to be mentioned, had not so acute 
a man as Mr. Hume grounded some of the contradictions he finds 
in a contract, upon confounding a will to engage in a contract 
with a will or purpose to perform the engagement. 

VII. Natural tendency of Mr .Hume' s principles. — I come now to 
consider the speculations of that author with regard to contracts. 

[In order to support a favourite notion of his own, That jus- 
tice is not a natural but an artificial virtue, and that it derives 
its whole merit from its utility, he has laid down some principles 
which, I think, have a tendency to subvert all faith and fair- 
dealing among mankind.] 

In the third volume of the " Treatise of Human Nature," p. 40, 
he lays it down as an undoubted maxim, [That no action can be 
virtuous or morally good, unless there be, in human nature, 
some motive to produce it, distinct from its morality.] Let us 
apply this undoubted maxim in an instance or two. If a man 
keeps his word, from this sole motive, that he ought to do so, 
this is no virtuous or morally good action. If a man pays his 
debt, from this motive, that justice requires this of him, this is 
no virtuous or morally good action. If a judge or an arbiter 
gives a sentence in a cause, from no other motive but regard to 
justice, this is no virtuous or morally good action. These appear 
to me to be shocking absurdities, which no metaphysical subtilty 
can ever justify. 

Nothing is more evident than that every human action takes 
its denomination and its moral nature from the motive from which 
it is performed. That is a benevolent action, which is done 
from benevolence. That is an act of gratitude, which is done 
from a sentiment of gratitude. That is an act of obedience to 
God, which is done from a regard to his command. And, in 
general, that is an act of virtue, which is done from a regard to 
virtue. 

Virtuous actions are so far from needing other motives, be- 
sides their being virtuous, to give them merit, that their merit is 
then greatest and most conspicuous, when every motive that can 
be put in the opposite scale is outweighed by the sole considera- 
tion of their being our duty. 

This maxim, therefore, of Mr. Hume, That no action can be 
virtuous or morally good, unless there be some motive to pro- 
duce it distinct from its morality, is so far from being undoubt- 
edly true, that it is undoubtedly false. It was never, so far as I 
know, maintained by any moralist, but by the Epicureans ; and 
it savours of the very dregs of that sect. It agrees well with the 



OF THE NATURE OF A CONTRACT. ^ \ 

principles of those who maintained, that virtue is an empty name, 
and that it is entitled to no regard, but in as far as it ministers 
to pleasure or profit. 

VI I J. Mr. Hume 's practice probably contradicted his principles. — 
I believe the author of this maxim acted upon better moral prin- 
ciples than he wrote ; and that what Cicero says of Epicurus, 
may be applied to him : " Redarguitur ipse a sese, vincunturque 
scrip ta ejus probitate ipsius et moribus, et ut alii existimantur 
dicere melius quam facere, sic ille mihi videtur facere melius 
quam dicere." — " He is refuted by himself, and his writings de- 
feated by his probity and moral worth ; and as some imagine that 
he spoke better than he acted, so to me he appears to have acted 
better than he spoke." 

But let us see how he applies this maxim to contracts. I give 
you his words from the place formerly cited. " I suppose," says 
he, " a person to have lent me a sum of money, on condition that 
it be restored in a few days ; and, after the expiration of the 
term agreed on, he demands the sum. I ask, what reason or 
motive have I to restore the money ? It will, perhaps, be said, 
that my regard to justice, and abhorrence of villany and knavery, 
are sufficient reasons for me, if I have the least grain of honesty, 
or sense of duty and obligation. And this answer, no doubt, is 
just and satisfactory to man in his civilized state, and when trained 
up according to a certain discipline and education. But, in his 
rude and more natural condition, if you are pleased to call such 
a condition natural, this answer would be rejected as perfectly 
unintelligible and sophistical." 

The doctrine we are taught in this passage is this — that though 
a man, in a civilized state, and when trained up according to a 
certain discipline and education, may have a regard to justice, 
and an abhorrence of villany and knavery, and some sense of 
duty and obligation ; yet, to a man in his rude and more natural 
condition, the considerations of honesty, justice, duty, and obli- 
gation, will be perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. And this 
is brought as an argument to show, that justice is not a natural, 
but an artificial virtue. 

IX. I shall offer some observations on this argument. 

1 . Although it may be true, that what is unintelligible to man 
in his rude state may be intelligible to him in his civilized state, 
I cannot conceive, that what is sophistical in the rude state 
should change its nature, and become just reasoning, when man 
is more improved. What is a sophism, will always be so ; nor 
can any change in the state of the person who judges, make that 
to be just reasoning which before was sophistical. Mr. Hume's 
argument requires, that to man in his rude state, the motives to 
justice and honesty should not only appear to be sophistical, but 
should really be so. If the motives were just in themselves, 

2 b 2 



372 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 

then justice would be a natural virtue, although the rude man, 
by an error of his judgment, thought otherwise. But if justice 
be not a natural virtue, which is the point Mr. Hume intends to 
prove, then every argument, by which man in his natural state 
may be urged to it, must be a sophism in reality, and not in ap- 
pearance only ; and the effect of discipline and education in the 
civilized state can only be to make those motives to justice appear 
just and satisfactory, which, in their own nature, are sophistical. 

2. It were to be wished, that this ingenious author had shown 
us, why that state of man, in which the obligation to honesty, 
and an abhorrence of villany, appear perfectly unintelligible and 
sophistical, should be his more natural state. 

It is the nature of human society to be progressive, as much 
as it is the nature of the individual. In the individual, the state 
of infancy leads to that of childhood, childhood to youth, youth 
to manhood, and manhood to old age. If one should say, that 
the state of infancy is a more natural state than that of manhood 
or of old age, I am apt to think, that this would be words with- 
out any meaning. In like manner, in human society, there is a 
natural progress from rudeness to civilization, from ignorance to 
knowledge. What period of this progress shall we call man's 
natural state ? To me they appear all equally natural. Every 
state of society is equally natural, wherein men have access to 
exert their natural powers about their proper objects, and to im- 
prove those powers by the means which their situation affords. 

Mr. Hume, indeed, shows some timidity in affirming the rude 
state to be the more natural state of man ; and, therefore, adds 
this qualifying parenthesis, If you are pleased to call such a con- 
dition natural. 

But it ought to be observed, that if the premises of his argu- 
ment be weakened by this clause, the same weakness must be 
communicated to the conclusion ; and the conclusion, according 
to the rules of good reasoning, ought to be — that justice is an 
artificial virtue, if you be pleased to call it artificial. 

3. It were likewise to be wished, that Mr. Hume had shown 
from fact, that there ever did exist such a state of man as that 
which he calls his more natural state. It is a state wherein a 
man borrows a sum of money, on the condition that he is to 
restore it in a few days ; yet when the time of payment comes, 
his obligation to repay what he borrowed is perfectly unintelli- 
gible and sophistical. It would have been proper to have given 
at least a single instance of some tribe of the human race that 
was found to be in this natural state. If no such instance can 
be given, it is probably a state merely imaginary ; like that state 
which some have imagined, wherein men were our an outangs, 
or wherein they were fishes with tails. 

Indeed, such a state seems impossible. That a man should 



OF THE NATURE OF A CONTRACT. 373 

lend without any conception of his having a right to be repaid ; 
or that a man should borrow on the condition of paying in a few 
days, and yet have no conception of his obligation, seems to me 
to involve a contradiction. 

I grant, that a humane man may lend without any expectation 
of being repaid ; but that he should lend without any conception 
of a right to be repaid, is a contradiction. In like manner, a 
fraudulent man may borrow without an intention of paying back ; 
but that he should borrow, while an obligation to repay is per- 
fectly unintelligible to him : this is a contradiction. 

The same author, in his " Enquiry into the Principles of Mo- 
rals," sect, iii., treating of the same subject, has the following 
note : — 

" 'Tis evident, that the will or consent alone never transfers 
property, nor causes the obligation of a promise, (for the same 
reasoning extends to both,) but the will must be expressed by 
words or signs, in order to impose a tie upon any man. The 
expression being once brought in as subservient to the will, 
soon becomes the principal part of the promise ; nor will a man 
be less bound by his word, though he secretly give a different 
direction to his intention, and withhold the assent of his mind. 
But though the expression makes, on most occasions, the whole 
of the promise, yet it does not always so ; and one who should 
make use of any expression, of which he knows not the meaning, 
and which he uses without any sense of the consequences, would 
not certainly be bound by it. Nay, though he know its meaning ; 
yet if he uses it in jest only, and with such signs as show evi- 
dently he has no serious intention of binding himself, he would 
not be under any obligation of performance ; but it is necessary 
that the words be a perfect expression of the will, without any 
contrary signs. Nay, even this we must not carry so far as to 
imagine, that one whom, from our quickness of understanding, 
we conjecture to have an intention of deceiving us, is not bound 
by his expression or verbal promise, if we accept of it, but must 
limit this conclusion to those cases where the signs are of a dif- 
ferent nature from those of deceit. All these contradictions are 
easily accounted for, if justice arises entirely from its usefulness 
to society, but will never be explained on any other hypothesis." 

[Here we have the opinion of this grave moralist and acute 
metaphysician, that the principles of honesty and fidelity are at 
bottom a bundle of contradictions. ,] This is one part of his moral 
system which, I cannot help thinking, borders upon licentious- 
ness. It surely tends to give a very unfavourable notion of that 
cardinal virtue, without which no man has a title to be called an 
honest man. What regard can a man pay to the virtue of fide- 
lity, who believes that its essential rules contradict each other ? 
Can a man be bound by contradictory rules of conduct ? No 



374 ESSAY V. CHAP. VI. 

more, surely, than he can be bound to believe contradictory prin- 
ciples. 

He tells us, " That all these contradictions are easily accounted 
for, if justice arises entirely from its usefulness to society, but 
will never be explained upon any other hypothesis." 

I know not indeed what is meant by accounting for contradic- 
tions, or explaining them. I apprehend, that no hypothesis can 
make that which is a contradiction to be no contradiction. How- 
ever, without attempting' to account for these contradictions upon 
his own hypothesis, he pronounces, in a decisive tone, that they 
will never be explained upon any other hypothesis. 

X. Origin of the contradictions in Mr. Hume s arguments. — What 
if it shall appear, that the contradictions mentioned in this para- 
graph, do all take their rise from two capital mistakes the author 
has made with regard to the nature of promises and contracts ; 
and if, when these are corrected, there shall not appear a shadow 
of contradiction in the cases put by him ? 

The first mistake is, That a promise is some kind of will, con- 
sent, or intention, which may be expressed, or may not be ex- 
pressed. This is to mistake the nature of a promise : for no 
will, no consent or intention that is not expressed, is a promise. 
A promise, being a social transaction between two parties, with- 
out being expressed, can have no existence. 

Another capital mistake that runs through the passage cited is, 
That this will, consent or intention, winch makes a promise, is a 
will or intention to perform what we promise. Every man 
knows that there may be a fraudulent promise, made without 
intention of performing. But the intention to perform the pro- 
mise, or not to perform it, whether the intention be known to 
the other party or not, makes no part of the promise, it is a so- 
litary act of the mind, and can neither constitute nor dissolve an 
obligation. What makes a promise is, that it be expressed to 
the other party with understanding, and with an intention to 
become bound, and that it be accepted by him. 

XI. Carrying these remarks along with us, let us review the 
passage cited. 

First, He observes, that the will or consent alone does not cause 
the obligation of a promise, but it must be expressed. 

I answer : The will not expressed is not a promise ; and is it a 
contradiction that that which is not a promise should not cause 
the obligation of a promise ? He goes on : The expression being 
once brought in as subservient to the will, soon becomes a prin- 
cipal part of the promise. Here it is supposed, that the expres- 
sion was not originally a constituent part of the promise, but it 
.^oon becomes such. It is brought in to aid and be subservient 
to the promise which was made before by the will. If Mr. 
Hume had considered, that it is the expression accompanied with 



OF THE NATURE OF A CONTRACT. 375 

understanding and will to become bound, that constitutes a pro- 
mise, he would never have said, that the expression soon becomes 
a part, and is brought in as subservient. 

He adds, Nor will a man be less bound by his Word, though he 
secretly gives a different direction to his intention, and with- 
holds the assent of his mind. 

The case here put needs some explication. Either it means, 
that the man knowingly and voluntarily gives his word, without 
any intention of giving his word, or that he gives it without the 
intention of keeping it, and performing what he promises. The 
last of these is indeed a possible case, and is, I apprehend, what 
Mr. Hume means. But the intention of keeping his promise is 
no part of the promise, nor does it in the least affect the obligation 
of it, as we have often observed. 

If the author meant that the man may knowingly and volun- 
tarily give his word, without the intention of giving his word, 
this is impossible : For such is the nature of all social acts of the 
mind, that, as they cannot be without being expressed, so they 
cannot be expressed knowingly and willingly, but they must be. 
If a man puts a question knowingly and willingly, it is impossible 
that he should at the same time will not to put it. If he gives a 
command knowingly and willingly, it is impossible that he should 
at the same time will not to give it. We cannot have contrary 
wills at the same time. And, in like manner, if a man knowingly 
and willingly becomes bound by a promise, it is impossible that 
he should at the same time will not to be bound. 

To suppose, therefore, that when a man knowingly and wil- 
lingly gives his word, he withholds that will and intention which 
makes a promise, is indeed a contradiction ; but the contradiction 
is not in the nature of the promise, but in the case supposed by 
Mr. Hume. 

He adds, though the expression, for the most part, makes the 
whole of the promise, it does not always so. 

I answer, That the expression, if it is not accompanied with 
understanding, and will to engage, never makes a promise. The 
author here assumes a postulate, which nobody ever granted, 
and which can only be grounded on the impossible supposition 
made in the former sentence. And as there can be no promise 
without knowledge, and will to engage, is it marvellous that words 
which are not understood, or words spoken in jest, and without 
any intention to become bound, should not have the effect of a 
promise ? 

XII. [ The last case put by Mr. Hume, is that of a man who 
promises fraudulently with an intention not to perform, and whose 
fraudulent intention is discovered by the other party, who, not- 
withstanding, accepts the promise. He is bound, says Mr. Hume, 
by his verbal promise.] Undoubtedly he is bound, because an 



37G ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 

intention not to perform the promise, whether known to the other 
party or not, makes no part of the promise, nor affects its obli- 
gation, as has been repeatedly observed. 

From what has been said, I think it evident, that to one who 
attends to the nature of a promise or contract, there is not the 
least appearance of contradiction in the principles of morality 
relating to contracts. 

It would indeed appear wonderful, that such a man as Mr. 
Hume should have imposed upon himself in so plain a matter, if 
we did not see frequent instances of ingenious men, whose zeal 
in supporting a favourite hypothesis, darkens their understanding, 
and hinders them from seeing what is before their eyes. 



CHAPTER VII. 

THAT MORAL APPROBATION IMPLIES A REAL JUDGMENT. 

I. The approbation of good actions, and disapprobation of 
bad, are so familiar to every man come to years of understanding, 
that it seems strange there should be any dispute about their 
nature. 

Whether we reflect upon our own conduct, or attend to the 
conduct of others with whom we live, or of whom we hear or 
read, we cannot help approving of some things, disapproving of 
others, and regarding many with perfect indifference. 

These operations of our minds we are conscious of every day, 
and almost every hour we live. Men of ripe understanding are 
capable of reflecting upon them, and of attending to what passes 
in their own thoughts on such occasions ; yet, for half a century, 
it has been a serious dispute among philosophers, what this ap- 
probation and disapprobation is, Whether there be a real judg- 
ment included in it, which, like all other judgments, must be 
true or false ; or, Whether it include no more but some agree- 
able or uneasy feeling in the person who approves or disapproves. 

IT. [Mr. Hume observes very justly, that this is a contro- 
versy started of late. Before the modern system of ideas and 
impressions was introduced, nothing would have appeared more 
absurd than to say, That when I condemn a man for what he has 
done, I pass no judgment at all about the man, but only express 
some uneasy feeling in myself.] 

Nor did the new system produce this discovery at once, but 
gradually, by several steps, according as its consequences were 
more accurately traced, and its spirit more thoroughly imbibed 
by successive philosophers. 

Des Cartes and Mr. Locke went no farther than to maintain, 
that the secondary qualities of body, heat and cold, sound, colour, 



APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. 377 

taste and smell, which we perceive and judge to be in the external 
object, are mere feelings or sensations in our minds, there being 
nothing in bodies themselves to which these names can be ap- 
plied ; and that the office of the external senses is not to judge of 
external things, but only to give us ideas or sensations, from 
which we are by reasoning to deduce the existence of a material 
world without us, as well as we can. 

Arthur Collier and Bishop Berkeley discovered, from the same 
principles, that the primary, as well as~ the secondary, qualities 
of bodies, such as extension, figure, solidity, motion, are only 
sensations in our minds ; and therefore, that there is no material 
world without us at all. 

The same philosophy, when it came to be applied to matters 
of taste, discovered that beauty and deformity are not anything 
in the objects to which men, from the beginning of the world, 
ascribed them, but certain feelings in the mind of the spectator. 

III. [The next step was an easy consequence from all the pre- 
ceding, that moral approbation and disapprobation are not judg- 
ments, which must be true or false, but barely, agreeable and 
uneasy feelings or sensations.] 

Mr. Hume made the last step in this progress, and crowned 
the system by what he calls his hypothesis, to wit, That belief is 
more properly an act of the sensitive, than of the cogitative 
part of our nature. 

Beyond this I think no man can go in this track ; sensation or 
feeling is all, and what is left to the cogitative part of our nature, 
I am not able to comprehend. 

I have had occasion to consider each of these paradoxes, ex- 
cepting that which relates to morals, in Essays on the Intellectual 
Powers of Man ; and, though they be strictly connected with 
each other, and with the system which has produced them, I have 
attempted to show, that they are inconsistent with just notions of 
our intellectual powers, no less than they are with the common 
sense and common language of mankind. And this, I think, will 
likewise appear with regard to the conclusion relating to morals, 
to wit, That moral approbation is only an agreeable feeling, and 
not a real judgment. 

IV. [Of feeling and judgment. — To prevent ambiguity as 
much as possible, let us attend to the meaning of feeling and 
of judgment. These operations of the mind, perhaps, cannot be 
logically defined ; but they are well understood, and easily dis- 
tinguished, by their properties and adjuncts.~\ 

Feeling or sensation seems to be the lowest degree of anima- 
tion we can conceive. We give the name of animal to every 
being that feels pain or pleasure ; and this seems to be the 
boundary between the inanimate and animal creation. 



378 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 

We know no being of so low a rank in the creation of God, as 
to possess this animal power only without any other. 

We commonly distinguish feeling from thinking, because it 
hardly deserves the name ; and though it be, in a more general 
sense, a species of thought, is least removed from the passive and 
inert state of things inanimate. 

A feeling must be agreeable, or uneasy, or indifferent. It 
may be weak or strong. It is expressed in language either by 
a single word, or by such a contexture of words as may be the 
subject or predicate of a proposition, but such as cannot by 
themselves make a proposition. For it implies neither affirma- 
tion nor negation ; and therefore cannot have the qualities of 
true or false, which distinguish propositions from all other forms 
of speech, and judgments from all other acts of the mind. 

That I have such a feeling, is indeed an affirmative proposi- 
tion, and expresses testimony grounded upon an intuitive judg- 
ment. But the feeling is only one term of this proposition ; and 
it can only make a proposition when joined with another term, 
by a verb affirming or denying. 

[As feeling distinguishes the animal nature from the inanimate ; 
so judging seems to distinguish the rational nature from the 
merely animal.] 

Though judgment in general is expressed by one word in lan- 
guage, as the most complex operations of the mind may be ; yet 
a particular judgment can only be expressed by a sentence, and 
by that kind of sentence which logicians call a proposition, in 
which there must necessarily be a verb in the indicative mood, 
either expressed or understood. 

Every judgment must necessarily be true or false, and the 
same may be said of the proposition which expresses it. It is a 
determination of the understanding, with regard to what is true, 
or false, or dubious.* 

In judgment, we can distinguish the object about which we 
judge, from the act of the mind in judging of that object. In 
mere feeling there is no such distinction. The object of judg- 
ment must be expressed by a proposition ; and belief, disbelief, 
or doubt, always accompanies the judgment we form. If we 
judge the proposition to be true, we must believe it ; if we judge 
it to be false, we must disbelieve it ; and if we be uncertain 
whether it be true or false, we must doubt. 

The toothache, the headache, are words which express uneasy 
feelings ; but to say that they express a judgment would be 
ridiculous. 

That the sun is greater than the earth, is a proposition, and 
therefore the object of judgment ; and when affirmed or denied, 
* Vide Essays on the Intellectual Powers of Man, Essay VI. chap. i. 



APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. 379 

believed or disbelieved, or doubted, it expresses judgment ; but 
to say that it expresses only a feeling in the mind of him that 
believes it, would be ridiculous. 

These two operations of mind, when we consider them sepa- 
rately, are very different, and easily distinguished. When we 
feel without judging, or judge without feeling, it is impossible, 
without very gross inattention, to mistake the one for the other. 

But in many operations of the mind, both are inseparably 
conjoined under one name ; and when we are not aware that the 
operation is complex, we may take one ingredient to be the 
whole, and overlook the other. 

In former ages, that moral power, by which human actions 
ought to be regulated, was called reason, and considered, both 
by philosophers, and by the vulgar, as the power of judging what 
we ought, and what we ought not to do. 

This is very fully expressed by Mr. Hume, in his " Treatise 
of Human Nature," Book ii. Part iii. sec. 3 : " Nothing is more 
usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to talk of the 
combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to reason, 
and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform 
themselves to its dictates. Every rational creature, 'tis said, is 
obliged to regulate his actions by reason ; and if any other motive 
or principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to 
oppose it, till it be entirely subdued, or, at least, brought to a 
conformity to that superior principle. On this method of think- 
ing, the greatest pait of moral philosophy, ancient and modern, 
seems to be founded." 

That those philosophers attended chiefly to the judging power 
of our moral faculty, appears from the names they gave to its 
ojuerations, and from the whole of their language concerning it. 

V. [The modern philosophy has led men to attend chiefly to 
their sensations and feelings, and thereby to resolve into mere 
feeling, complex acts of the mind, of which feeling is only one 
ingredient.] 

I had occasion, in the preceding Essays, to observe, That 
several operations of the mind, to which we give one name, and 
consider as one act, are compounded of more simple acts, insepa- 
rably united in our constitution, and that in these, sensation or 
feeling often makes one ingredient. 

Thus the appetites of hunger and thirst are compounded of an 
uneasy sensation, and the desire of food or drink. In our bene- 
volent affections, there is both an agreeable feeling, and a desire 
of happiness to the object of our affection ; and malevolent affec- 
tions have ingredients of a contrary nature. 

In these instances, sensation or feeling is inseparably con- 
joined with desire. In other instances, we find sensation inse- 
parably conjoined with judgment or belief, and that in two 



330 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 

different ways. In some instances, the judgment or belief seems 
to be the consequence of the sensation, and to be regulated by 
it. In other instances, the sensation is the consequence of the 
judgment. 

When we perceive an external object by our senses, we have 
a sensation conjoined with a firm belief of the existence and 
sensible qualities of the external object. Nor has all the subtilty 
of metaphysics been able to disjoin what nature has conjoined in 
our constitution. Des Cartes and Locke endeavoured, by rea- 
soning, to deduce the existence of external objects from our 
sensation, but in vain. Subsequent philosophers, finding no 
reason for this connexion, endeavoured to throw oif the belief of 
external objects as being unreasonable ; but this attempt is no 
less vain. Nature has doomed us to believe the testimony of 
our senses, whether we can give a good reason for doing so or 
not. 

In this instance, the belief or judgment is the consequence of 
the sensation, as the sensation is the consequence of the impres- 
sion made on the organ of sense. 

But in most of the operations of mind in which judgment or 
belief is combined with feeling, the feeling is the consequence 
of the judgment, and is regulated by it. 

Thus, an account of the good conduct of a friend at a distance 
gives me a very agreeable feeling, and a contrary account would 
give me a very uneasy feeling ; but these feelings depend entirely 
upon my belief of the report. 

In hope, there is an agreeable feeling, depending upon the 
belief or expectation of good to come : fear is made up of con- 
trary ingredients ; in both, the feeling is regulated by the degree 
of belief. 

In the respect we bear to the worthy, and in our contempt of 
the worthless, there is both judgment and feeling, and the last 
depends entirely upon the first. 

The same may be said of gratitude for good offices, and resent- 
ment of injuries. 

Y I. Let me now consider how I am affected when I see a man 
exerting himself nobly in a good cause. I am conscious that the 
effect of his conduct on my mind is complex, though it may be 
called by one name. I look up to his virtue, I approve, I admire 
it. In doing so, I have pleasure indeed, or an agreeable feeling; 
this is granted. But I find myself interested in his success and 
in his fame. This is affection ; it is love and esteem, which is 
more than mere feeling. The man is the object of this esteem f 
but in mere feeling there is no object. 

I am likewise conscious that this agreeable feeling in me, and 
this esteem of him, depend entirely upon the judgment 1 form 
of his conduct. I judge that this conduct merits esteem ; and, 



APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. ggl 

while I thus judge, I cannot but esteem him, and contemplate 
his conduct with pleasure. Persuade me that he was bribed, or 
that he acted from some mercenary or bad motive, immediately 
my esteem and my agreeable feeling vanish. 

[In the approbation of a good action, therefore, there is feeling 
indeed, but there is also esteem of the agent ; and both the feel- 
ing and the esteem depend upon the judgment we form of his 
conduct.] 

When I exercise my moral faculty about my *bwn actions or 
those of other men, I am conscious that I judge as well as feel. 
I accuse and excuse, I acquit and condemn, I assent and dissent, 
I believe and disbelieve, and doubt. These are acts of judgment, 
and not feelings. 

Every determination of the understanding, with regard to what 
is true or false, is judgment. That I ought not to steal, or to 
kill, or to bear false witness, are propositions, of the truth of 
which I am as well convinced as of any proposition in Euclid. 
I am conscious that I judge them to be true propositions ; and 
my consciousness makes all other arguments unnecessary, with 
regard to the operations of my own mind. 

That other men judge, as well as feel, in such cases, I am con- 
vinced, because they understand me when I express my moral 
judgment, and express theirs by the same terms and phrases. 

Suppose that, in a case well known to both, my friend says, 
Such a man did well and worthily ; his conduct is highly (improv- 
able. This speech, according to all rules of interpretation, ex- 
presses my friend's judgment of the man's conduct. This judg- 
ment may be true or false, and I may agree in opinion with him, 
or I may dissent from him without offence, as we may differ in 
other matters of judgment. 

Suppose again, that, in relation to the same case, my friend 
says, The mans conduct gave me a very agreeable feeling. 

This speech, if approbation be nothing but an agreeable 
feeling, must have the very same meaning with the first, and 
express neither more nor less. But this cannot be, for two 
reasons. 

First, Because there is no rule in grammar or rhetoric, nor any 
usage in language, by which these two speeches can be construed, 
so as to have the same meaning. The first expresses plainly an 
opinion or judgment of the conduct of the man, but says nothing 
of the speaker. The second only testifies a fact concerning the 
speaker, to wit, that he had such a feeling. 

Another reason why these two speeches cannot mean the same 
thing is, that the first may be contradicted without any ground 
of offence, such contradiction being only a difference of opinion, 
which, to a reasonable man, gives no offence. But the second 
speech cannot be contradicted without an affront ; for, as every 



ggg ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 

man must know his own feelings, to deny that a man had a feel- 
ing which he affirms he had, is to charge him with falsehood. 

If moral approbation be a real judgment, which produces an 
agreeable feeling in the mind of him who judges, both speeches 
are perfectly intelligible, in the most obvious and literal sense. 
Their meaning is different, but they are related, so that the one 
may be inferred from the other, as we infer the effect from the 
cause, or the cause from the effect. I know, that what a man 
judges to be a very worthy action, he contemplates with plea- 
sure ; and what he contemplates with pleasure must, in his judg- 
ment, have worth. But the judgment and the feeling are dif- 
ferent acts of his mind, though connected as cause and effect. 
He can express either the one or the other with perfect pro- 
priety ; but the speech which expresses his feeling is altogether 
improper and inept to express his judgment, for this evident 
reason, that judgment and feeling, though in some cases con- 
nected, are things in their nature different. 

If we suppose, on the other hand, that moral approbation is 
nothing more than an agreeable feeling, occasioned by the con- 
templation of an action, the second speech above mentioned has 
a distinct meaning, and expresses all that is meant by moral 
approbation. But the first speech either means the very same 
thing, (which cannot be, for the reasons already mentioned,) or it 
has no meaning. 

Now, we may appeal to the reader, whether, in conversation 
upon human characters, such speeches as the first are not as fre- 
quent, as familiar, and as well understood, as anything in lan- 
guage ; and whether they have not been common in all ages that 
we can trace, and in all languages ? 

[This doctrine, therefore, That moral approbation is merely a 
feeling without judgment, necessarily carries along with it this 
consequence, that a form of speech, upon one of the most common 
topics of discourse, which either has no meaning, or a meaning- 
irreconcilable to all rules of grammar or rhetoric, is found to he 
common and familiar in all languages, and in all ages of the 
world, while every man knows how to express the meaning, if it 
have any, in plain and proper language.] 

Such a consequence I think sufficient to sink any philosophical 
opinion on which it hangs. 

A particular language may have some oddity, or even absur- 
dity, introduced by some man of eminence, from caprice or wrong 
judgment, and followed by servile imitators, for a time, till it be 
detected, and, of consequence, discountenanced and dropt; but 
that the same absurdity should pervade all languages, through all 
ages, and that, after being detected and exposed, it should still 
keep its countenance and its place in language as much as before, 
this can never be while men have understanding. 



APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. ggg 

VII. [It may be observed by the way, that the same argument 
may be applied, with equal force, against those other paradoxical 
opinions of modern philosophy which we before mentioned as con- 
nected with this, such as, that beauty and deformity are not at all 
in the objects to which language universally ascribes them, but 
are merely feelings in the mind of the spectator ; that the secon- 
dary qualities are not in external objects, but are merely feelings 
or sensations in him that perceives them ; and, in general, that 
our external and internal senses are faculties by which we have 
sensations or feelings only, but by which we do not judge.] 

That every form of speech which language affords to express 
our judgments, should, in all ages, and in all languages, be used 
to express what is no judgment ; and that feelings, which are 
easily expressed in proper language, should as universally be ex- 
pressed by language altogether improper and absurd, I cannot 
believe ; and therefore must conclude, that if language be the 
expression of thought, men judge of the primary and secondary 
qualities of body by their external senses, of beauty and defor- 
mity by their taste, and of virtue and vice by their moral faculty. 

A truth so evident as this is, can hardly be obscured and 
brought into doubt, but by the abuse of words. And much 
abuse of words there has been upon this subject. To avoid this, 
as much as possible, I have used the word judgment, on one side, 
and sensation or feeling, upon the other ; because these words 
have been least liable to abuse or ambiguity. But it may be 
proper to make some observations upon other words that have 
been used in this controversy. 

Mr. Hume, in his " Treatise of Human Nature," has employed 
two sections upon it, the titles of which are, Moral Distinctions 
not derived from Reason, and Moral Distinctions derived from a 
Moral Sense. 

When he is not, by custom, led unawares to speak of reason 
like other men, he limits that word to signify only the power of 
judging in matters merely speculative. Hence he concludes, 
" That reason of itself is inactive and perfectly inert." That 
" actions may be laudable or blameable, but cannot be reason- 
able or unreasonable." That " it is not contrary to reason, to 
prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching of my 
finger." That "it is not contrary to reason, for me to choose 
my total ruin to prevent the least uneasiness of an Indian, or of 
a person wholly unknown to me." That " reason is, and ought 
only to be, the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to 
any other office, than to serve and obey them." 

If we take the word reason to mean what common use, both of 
philosophers and of the vulgar, hath made it to mean, these 
maxims are not only false, but licentious. It is only his abuse of 



384 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 

the words reason and passion, that can justify them from this 
censure. 

The meaning of a common word is not to be ascertained by 
philosophical theory, but by common usage ; and if a man will 
take the liberty of limiting or extending the meaning of common 
words at his pleasure, he may, like Mandeville, insinuate the 
most licentious paradoxes with the appearance of plausibility. I 
have before made some observations upon the meaning of this 
word, Essay II. chap. 2, and Essay III. Part iii. chap. 1, to which 
the reader is referred. 

When Mr. Hume derives moral difficulties from a moral sense, 
I agree with him in words, but we differ about the meaning of 
the word sense. Every power to which the name of a sense has 
been given, is a power of judging of the objects of that sense, 
and has been accounted such in all ages ; the moral sense there- 
fore is the power of judging in morals. But Mr. Hume will 
have the moral sense to be only a power of feeling, without 
judging: This I take to be an abuse of the word. 

[Authors who place moral approbation in feeling only, very 
often use the word sentiment, to express feeling without judgment. 
This I take likewise to be an abuse of the word.] Our moral 
determinations may, with propriety, be called moral sentiments. 
For the word sentiment, in the English language, never, as I con- 
ceive, signifies mere feeling, but judgment accompanied with 
feeling. It was wont to signify opinion or judgment of any kind, 
but, of late, is appropriated to signify an opinion or judgment, 
that strikes, and produces some agreeable or uneasy emotion. So 
we speak of sentiments of respect, of esteem, of gratitude. But 
I never heard the pain of the gout, or any other mere feeling, 
called a sentiment. 

Even the woi&judgment has been used by Mr. Hume to express 
what he maintains to be only a feeling. " Treatise of Human Na- 
ture," Part iii. p. 3. "The term perception is no less applicable 
to those judgments by which we distinguish moral good and evil, 
than to every other operation of the mind." Perhaps he used 
this word inadvertently ; for I think there cannot be a greater 
abuse of words, than to put judgment for what he held to be 
mere feeling. 

VIII. \_lmproper use of words has impeded the study of moral 
philosophy.— All the words most commonly used, both by philo- 
sophers and the vulgar, to express the operations of our moral 
faculty, such as decision, determination, sentence, approbation, 
disapprobation, applause, censure, praise, blame, necessarily 
imply judgment in their meaning. When, therefore, they are 
used by Mr. Hume, and others who hold his opinion, to signify 
feelings only, this is an abuse of words.] If these philosophers 



APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. gg£ 

wish to speak plainly and properly, they must, in discoursing 
of morals, discard these words altogether, because their estab- 
lished signification in the language, is contrary to what they would 
express by them. 

They must likewise discard from morals the words ought and 
ought not, which very properly express judgment, but cannot be 
applied to mere feelings. Upon these words Mr. Hume has 
made a particular observation in the conclusion of his first section 
above mentioned. I shall give it in his own words, and make 
some remarks upon it. 

" I cannot forbear adding to these reasonings, an observation 
which may, perhaps, be found of some importance. In every 
system of morality which I have hitherto met with, I have always 
remarked, that the author proceeds for some time in the ordinary 
way of reasoning, and establishes the being of a Grod, or makes 
observations concerning human affairs ; when, of a sudden,. I 
am surprised to find, that, instead of the usual copulations of 
propositions, is, and is not, I meet with no proposition that is not 
connected with an ought, or an ought not. This change is im- 
perceptible, but is, however, of the last consequence. For as this 
ought or ought not expresses some new relation or affirmation, it is 
necessary that it should be observed and explained : and, at the 
same time, that a reason should be given for what seems altoge- 
ther inconceivable ; how this new relation can be a deduction 
from others which are entirely different from it. But as authors 
do not commonly use this precaution, I shall presume to recom- 
mend it to the readers ; and am persuaded, that this small atten- 
tion would subvert all the vulgar systems of morality, and let us 
see, that the distinction of vice and virtue, is not founded merely 
on the relations of objects, nor is perceived by reason." 

We may here observe, that it is acknowledged, that the words 
ought and ought not express some relation and affirmation ; but 
a relation or affirmation which Mr. Hume thought inexplicable, 
or, at least, inconsistent with his system of morals. He must, 
therefore, have thought, that they ought not to be used in treat- 
ing of that subject. 

He likewise makes two demands, and, taking it for granted that 
they cannot be satisfied, is persuaded, that an attention to this is 
sufficient to subvert all the vulgar systems of morals. 

The Jlrst demand is, that ought and ought not be explained. 

To a man that understands English, there are surely no words 
that require explanation less. Are not all men taught, from their 
early years, that they ought not to lie, nor steal, nor swear falsely ? 
But Mr. Hume thinks, that men never understood what these pre- 
cepts mean, or rather that they are unintelligible. If this be so, 
I think indeed it will follow, that all the vulgar systems of morals 
are subverted. 

2c 



386 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 

Dr. Johnson, in his Dictionary, explains the word ought to sig- 
nify, being obliged by duty ; and I know no better explication 
that can be given of it. The reader will see what I thought ne- 
cessary to say concerning the moral relation expressed by this 
word, in Essay III. part iii. chap. 5. 

The second demand is, that a reason should be given why this 
relation should be a deduction from others which are entirely 
different from it. 

This is to demand a reason for what does not exist. The first 
principles of morals are not deductions. They are self-evident ; 
and their truth, like that of other axioms, is perceived without 
reasoning or deduction. And moral truths, that are not self- 
evident, are deduced, not from relations quite different from 
them, but from the first principles of morals. 

In a matter so interesting to mankind, and so frequently the 
subject of conversation among the learned and the unlearned as 
morals is, it may surely be expected, that men will express both 
their judgments and their feelings with propriety, and consist- 
ently with the rules of language. An opinion, therefore, which 
makes the language of all nations, upon this subject, to be im- 
proper, contrary to all rules of language, and fit to be discarded, 
needs no other refutation. 

As mankind have, in all ages, understood reason to mean the 
power by which not only our speculative opinions, but our. ac- 
tions, ought to be regulated, we may say, with perfect propriety, 
that all vice is contrary to reason ; that, by reason, we are to 
judge of what we ought to do, as well as of what we ought to 
believe. 

But though all vice be contrary to reason, I conceive that it 
would not be a proper definition of vice to say, that it is a con- 
duct contrary to reason, because this definition would apply 
equally to folly, which all men distinguish from vice. 

IX. [There are other phrases which have been used on the 
same side of the question, which I see no reason for adopting, 
such as, acting contrary to the relations of things, contrary to the 
reason of things, to the fitness of things, to the truth of tilings, 
to absolute fitness.~\ These phrases have not the authority of 
common use, which in matters of language, is great. They seem 
to have been invented by some authors, with a view to explain 
the nature of vice ; but I do not think they answer that end. 
If intended as definitions of vice, they are improper : because, 
in the most favourable sense they can bear, they extend to every 
kind of foolish and absurd conduct, as well as to that which is 
vicious. 

I shall conclude this chapter with some observations upon the 
five arguments which Mr. Hume. has offered upon this point in 
his Inquiry. 



APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. 337 

The first is, that it is impossible that the hypothesis he 
opposes can, in any particular instance, be so much as rendered 
intelligible, whatever specious figure it may make in general dis- 
course. " Examine," says he, " the crime of ingratitude, anato- 
mise all its circumstances, and examine, by your reason alone, 
in what consists the demerit or blame, you will never come to 
any issue or conclusion." 

I think it unnecessary to follow him through all the accounts 
of ingratitude which he conceives may be given by those whom 
he opposes, because I agree with him in that which he himself 
adopts, to wit, " That this crime arises from a complication of 
circumstances, which, being presented to the spectator, excites 
the sentiment of blame by the particular structure and fabric of 
his mind." 

This he thought a true and intelligible account of the crimi- 
nality of ingratitude. So do I. And therefore I think the hy- 
pothesis he opposes is intelligible, when applied to a particular 
instance. 

Mr. Hume, no doubt, thought, that the account he gives of 
ingratitude is inconsistent with the hypothesis he opposes, and 
could not be adopted by those who hold that hypothesis. He 
could be led to think so, only by taking for granted one of these 
two things. Either, first, That the sentiment of blame means a 
feeling only, without judgment; or secondly. That whatever is 
excited by the particular fabric and structure of the mind must 
be feeling only, and not judgment. But I cannot grant either 
the one or the other. 

For, as to \he first, it seems evident to me, that both sentiment 
and blame imply judgment ; and, therefore, that the sentiment 
of blame means a judgment accompanied with feeling, and not 
mere feeling without judgment. 

The second can as little be granted ; for no operation of mind, 
whether judgment or feeling, can be excited but by that particu- 
lar structure and fabric of the mind which makes us capable of 
that operation. 

By that part of our fabric which we call the faculty of seeing, 
we judge of visible objects ; by taste, another part of our fabric, 
we judge of beauty and deformity ; by that part of our fabric, 
which enables us to form abstract conceptions, to compare them, 
and perceive their relations, we judge of abstract truths ; and by 
that part of our fabric which we call the moral faculty, we judge 
of virtue and vice. If we suppose a being without any moral 
faculty in his fabric, I grant that he could not have the sentiments 
of blame and moral approbation. 

[There are, therefore, judgments, as well as feelings, that are 
excited by the particular structure and fabric of the mind. But 
there is this remarkable difference between them, That every 

2 c 2 



ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 

judgment is, in its own nature, true or false ; and though it 
depends upon the fabric of a mind, whether it have such a judg- 
ment or not, it depends not upon that fabric whether the judg- 
ment be true or not. A true judgment will be true, whatever be 
the fabric of the mind ; but a particular structure and fabric is 
necessary, in order to our perceiving that truth. Nothing like 
this can be said of mere feelings, because the attributes of true 
or false do not belong to them.] 

Thus I think it appears, that the hypothesis which Mr. Hume 
opposes is not unintelligible, when applied to the particular 
instance of ingratitude ; because the account of ingratitude 
which he himself thinks true and intelligible, is perfectly agree- 
able to it. 

The second argument amounts to this : That in moral delibera- 
tion, we must be acquainted beforehand with all the objects and 
all their relations. After these things are known, the under- 
standing has no further room to operate. Nothing remains but 
to feel, on our part, some sentiment of blame or approbation. 

Let us apply this reasoning to the office of a judge. In a 
cause that comes before him, he must be made acquainted with 
all the objects, and all their relations. After this, his under- 
standing has no further room to operate. Nothing remains, on 
his part, but to feel the right or the wrong ; and mankind have, 
very absurdly, called him & judge; he ought to be called a feeler. 

To answer this argument more directly : the man who deli- 
berates, after all the objects and relations mentioned by Mr. 
Hume are known to him, has a point to determine ; and that is, 
whether the action under his deliberation ought to be done or 
ought not. In most cases, this point will appear self-evident to 
a man who has been accustomed to exercise his moral judgment; 
in some cases it may require reasoning. 

In like manner, the judge, after all the circumstances of the 
cause are known, has to judge, whether the plaintiff has a just 
plea or not. 

The third argument is taken from the analogy between moral 
beauty and natural, between moral sentiment and taste. As 
beauty is not a quality of the object, but a certain feeling of the 
spectator, so virtue and vice are not qualities in the persons to 
whom language ascribes them, but feelings of the spectator. 

But is it certain beauty is not any quality of the object ? This 
is indeed a paradox of modern philosophy, built upon a philoso- 
phical theory ; but a paradox so -contrary to the common lan- 
guage and common sense of mankind, that it ought rather to 
overturn the theory on which it stands, than receive any sup- 
port from it. And if beauty be really a quality of the object, 
and not merely a feeling of the spectator, the whole force of this 
argument goes over to the other side of the question. 



APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. ggg 

" Euclid," he says, " has fully explained all the qualities of 
the circle, but has not, in any proposition, said a word of its 
beauty. The reason is evident. The beauty is not a quality of 
the circle." 

By the qualities of the circle, he must mean its properties ; 
and there are here two mistakes. 

First, Euclid has not fully explained all the properties of the 
circle. Many have been discovered and demonstrated which he 
never dreamt of. 

Secondly, The reason why Euclid has not said a word of the 
beauty of the circle, is not, that beauty is not a quality of the 
circle ; the reason is, that Euclid never digresses from his sub- 
ject. His purpose was to demonstrate the mathematical pro- 
perties of the circle. Beauty is a quality of the circle, not de- 
monstrable by mathematical reasoning, but immediately perceived 
by a good taste. To speak of it would have been a digression 
from his subject ; and that is a fault he is never guilty of. 

The fourth argument is, That inanimate objects may bear to 
each other all the same relations which we observe in moral 
agents. 

If this were true, it would be very much to the purpose ; but 
it seems to be thrown out rashly, without any attention to its 
evidence. Had Mr. Hume reflected but a very little upon this 
dogmatical assertion, a thousand instances would have occurred 
to him in direct contradiction to it. 

May not one animal be more tame, or more docile, or more 
cunning, or more fierce, or more ravenous, than another ? Are 
these relations to be found in inanimate objects ? May not one 
man be a better painter, or sculptor, or shipbuilder, or tailor, or 
shoemaker, than another ? Are these relations to be found in 
inanimate objects, or even in brute-animals ? May not one 
moral agent be more just, more pious, more attentive to any 
moral duty, or more eminent in any moral virtue, than another ? 
Are not these relations peculiar to moral agents ? But to come 
to the relations most essential to morality. 

When I say that I ought to do such an action, that it is my 
duty, do not these words express a relation between me and a 
certain action in my power ; a relation which cannot be between 
inanimate objects, or between any other objects but a moral agent 
and his moral actions ; a relation which is well understood by all 
men come to years of understanding, and expressed in all 
languages ? 

Again, when in deliberating about two actions in my power, 
which cannot both be done, I say this ought to be preferred to 
the other ; that justice, for instance, ought to be preferred to 
generosity j I express a moral relation between two actions of a 



390 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 

moral agent, which is well understood, and which cannot exist 
between objects of any other kind. 

[There are, therefore, moral relations which can have no exist- 
ence but between moral agents and their voluntary actions. 
To determine these relations is the object of morals; and to 
determine relations, is the province of judgment, and not of mere 
feeling.'] 

The last argument is a chain of several propositions, which 
deserve distinct consideration. They may, 1 think, be summed 
up in these four: 1. There must be ultimate ends of action, 
beyond which it is absurd to ask a reason of acting. 2. The 
ultimate ends of human actions can never be accounted for by 
reason ; S. but recommend themselves entirely to the sentiments 
and affections of mankind, without any dependence on the intel- 
lectual faculties. 4. As virtue is an end, and is desirable on its 
own account, without fee or reward, merely for the immediate 
satisfaction it conveys ; it is requisite, that there should be some 
sentiment which it touches, some internal taste or feeling, or 
whatever you please to call it, which distinguishes moral good 
and evil, and which embraces the one and rejects the other. 

To the first of these propositions I entiiely agree. The ulti- 
mate ends of action are what I have called the principles of action, 
which I have endeavoured, in the third Essay, to enumerate, 
and to class under three heads of mechanical, animal and 
rational. 

The second proposition needs some explication. I take its 
meaning to be, That there cannot be another end for the sake of 
which an ultimate end is pursued : for the reason of an action 
means nothing but the end for which the action is done ; and 
the reason of an end of action can mean nothing but another 
end, for the sake of which that end is pursued, and to which it 
is the means. 

That this is the author's meaning is evident from his reasoning 
in confirmation of it. " Ask a man, why he uses exercise ? he 
will answer, because he desires to keep his health. If you then 
inquire, why he desires health ? he will readily reply, because 
sickness is painful. If you push your inquiries further, and 
desire a reason why he hates pain, it is impossible he can ever 
give any. This is an ultimate end, and is never referred to any 
other object." To account by reason for an end, therefore, is 
to show another end, for the sake of which that end is desired 
and pursued. And that, in this sense, an ultimate end can never 
be accounted for by reason, is certain, because that cannot be 
an ultimate end which is pursued only for the sake of another end. 

I agree therefore with Mr. Hume in this second proposition, 
which indeed is implied in the first. 



APPROBATION IMPLIES JUDGMENT. 39 J 

The third proposition is, That ultimate ends recommend them- 
selves entirely to the sentiments and affections of mankind, with- 
out any dependence on the intellectual faculties. 

By sentiments he must here mean feelings without judgment, 
and by affections, such affections as imply no judgment. For 
surely any operation that implies judgment, cannot be indepen= 
dent of the intellectual faculties. 

This being understood, I cannot assent to this proposition. 

The Author seems to think it implied in the preceding, or a 
necessary consequence from it, that because an ultimate end can- 
not be accounted for by reason ; that is, cannot be pursued merely 
for the sake of another end ; therefore it can have no dependence 
on the intellectual faculties. I deny this consequence, and can 
see no force in it. 

I think it not only does not follow from the preceding propo- 
sition, but that it is contrary to truth. 

A man may act from gratitude as an ultimate end ; but grati- 
tude implies a judgment and belief of favours received, and there- 
fore is dependent on the intellectual faculties. A man may act 
from respect to a worthy character as an ultimate end ; but this 
respect necessarily implies a judgment of worth in the person, 
and therefore is dependent on the intellectual faculties. 

I have endeavoured in the third Essay before mentioned, to 
show that, beside the animal principles of our nature, which re- 
quire will and intention, but not judgment, there are also in 
human nature rational principles of action, or ultimate ends, 
which have, in all ages, been called rational, and have a just title 
to that name, not only from the authority of language, but be- 
cause they can have no existence but in beings endowed with 
reason, and because, in all their exertions, they require not only 
intention and will, but judgment or reason. 

Therefore, until it can be proved that an ultimate end cannot 
be dependent on the intellectual faculties, this third proposition, 
and all that hangs upon it, must fall to the ground. 

The last proposition assumes, with very good reason, that 
virtue is an ultimate end, and desirable, on its own account. From 
which, if the third proposition were true, the conclusion would 
undoubtedly follow, that virtue has no dependence on the intel- 
lectual faculties. But as that proposition is not granted, nor 
proved, this conclusion is left without any support from the 
whole of the argument. 

I should not have thought it worth while to insist so long 
upon this controversy, if I did not conceive that the consequences 
which the contrary opinions draw after them are important. 

If what we call moral judgment be no real judgment, but merely 
a feeling, it follows, that the principles of morals which we have 
been taught to consider as an immutable law to all intelligent 



392 ESSAY V. CHAP. VII. 

beings, have no other foundation but an arbitrary structure and 
fabric in the constitution of the human mind : so that, by a change 
in our structure, what is immoral might become moral, virtue 
might be turned into vice, and vice into virtue. And beings of 
a different structure, according to the variety of their feelings, 
may have different, nay opposite measures of moral good and evil. 

It follows, that, from our notions of morals, we can conclude 
nothing concerning a moral character in the Deity, which is the 
foundation of all religion, and the strongest' support of virtue. 

X. Impiety of the assertion, that moral judgment is merely a 
feeling. — Nay, this opinion seems to conclude strongly against a 
moral character in the Deity, since nothing arbitrary or mutable 
can be conceived to enter into the description of a nature eternal, 
immutable, and necessarily existent. Mr. Hume seems perfectly 
consistent with himself, in allowing of no evidence for the moral 
attributes of the Supreme Being, whatever there may be for his 
natural attributes. 

On the other hand, if moral judgment be a true and real judg- 
ment, the principles of morals stand upon the immutable foun- 
dation of truth, and can undergo no change by any difference of 
fabric or structure of those who judge of them. There may 
be, and there are beings, who have not the faculty of conceiving 
moral truths, or perceiving the excellence of moral worth, as 
there are beings incapable of perceiving mathematical truths ; 
but no defect, no error of understanding, can make what is true 
to be false. 

If it be true that piety, justice, benevolence,. wisdom, temper- 
ance, fortitude, are in their own nature the most excellent and 
most amiable qualities of a human creature ; that vice has an in- 
herent turpitude which merits disapprobation and dislike ; these 
truths cannot be hid from Him whose understanding is infinite, 
whose judgment is always according to truth, and who must 
esteem every thing according to its real value. 

[The Judge of all the earth, we are sure, will do right. He 
has given to men the faculty of perceiving the right and the 
wrong in conduct, as far as is necessary to our present state, and 
of perceiving the dignity of the one, and the demerit of the 
other j and surely there can be no real knowledge or real excel- 
lence in man, which is not in his Maker.] 

We may, therefore, justly conclude, that what we know in part, 
and see in part, of right and wrong, He sees perfectly ; that the 
moral excellence which we see and admire in some of our fellow- 
creatures, is a faint but true copy of that moral excellence which 
is essential to His nature ; and that to tread the path of virtue is 
the true dignity of our nature, an imitation of God, and the 
way to obtain his favour. 



AN INQUIRY 



THE HUMAN MIND, 



PRINCIPLES OF COMMON SENSE. 



The inspiration of the Almighty giveth them understanding." — Job. 



THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 

JAMES LORD DESKFOORD, 

CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OLD ABERDEEN. 



My Lord, 

Though I apprehend that there are things new, and of some im- 
portance in the following Inquiry, it is not without timidity that 
I have consented to the publication of it. The subject has been 
canvassed by men of very great penetration and genius : for who 
does not acknowledge Des Cartes, Malebranche, Locke, Berke- 
ley, and Hume, to be such? A view of the human under- 
standing so different from that which they have exhibited, will, 
no doubt, be condemned by many without examination, as pro- 
ceeding from temerity and vanity. 

But I hope the candid and discerning few, who are capable of 
attending to the operations of their own minds, will weigh deli- 
berately what is here advanced, before they pass sentence upon 
it. To such I appeal, as the only competent judges. If they 
disapprove, I am probably in the wrong, and shall be ready to 
change my opinion upon conviction. If they approve, the many 
will at last yield to their authority, as they always do. 

However contrary my notions are to those of the writers I 
have mentioned, their speculations have been of great use to me, 
and seem even to point out the road which I have taken ; and your 
lordship knows that the merit of useful discoveries is some- 
times not more justly due to those that have hit upon them, than 
to others who have ripened them, and brought them to the 
birth. 

I acknowledge, my lord, that I never thought of calling in 
question the principles commonly received with regard to the 



396 DEDICATION. 

human understanding, until the " Treatise of Human Nature" was 
published in the year 1 739. The ingenious author of that trea- 
tise, upon the principles of Locke, who was no sceptic, hath built 
a system of scepticism, which leaves no ground to believe any one 
thing rather than its contrary. His reasoning appeared to me 
to be just : there was therefore a necessity to call in question 
the principles upon which it was founded, or to admit the con- 
clusion. 

But can any ingenuous mind admit this sceptical system with- 
out reluctance ? I truly could not, my lord : for I am per- 
suaded that absolute scepticism is not more destructive of the 
faith of a Christian than of the science of a philosopher, and of 
the prudence of a man of common understanding. I am per- 
suaded that the unjust live by faith as well as the just ; that if 
all belief could be laid aside, piety, patriotism, friendship, pa- 
rental affection, and private virtue, would appear as ridiculous 
as knight-errantry ; and that the pursuits of pleasure, of ambi- 
tion, and of avarice, must be grounded upon belief, as well as 
those that are honourable and virtuous. 

The day-labourer toils at his work, in the belief that he shall 
receive his wages at night ; and if he had not this belief, he 
would not toil. We may venture to say, that even the author 
of this sceptical system wrote it in the belief that it should be 
read and regarded. I hope he wrote it in the belief also that it 
would be useful to mankind : and perhaps it may prove so at 
last. For I conceive the sceptical writers to be a set of men 
whose business it is to pick holes in the fabric of knowledge 
wherever it is weak and faulty ; and when these places are pro- 
perly repaired, the whole building becomes more firm and solid 
than it was formerly. 

For my own satisfaction, I entered into a serious examination 
of the principles upon which this sceptical system is built ; and 
was not a little surprised to find that it leans with its whole 
weight upon a hypothesis, which is ancient indeed, and hath 
been very generally received by philosophers, but of which I 
could find no solid proof. The hypothesis I mean is, that no- 
thing is perceived but what is in the mind which perceives it ; 
that we do not really perceive things that are external, but only 
certain images and pictures of them imprinted upon the mind, 
which are called impressions and ideas. 



DEDICATION. 397 

If this be true ; supposing certain impressions and ideas to 
exist presently in my mind, I cannot, from their existence, infer 
the existence of any thing else ; my impressions and ideas are 
the only existences of which I can have any knowledge or con- 
ception : and they are such fleeting and transitory beings, that 
they can have no existence at all, any longer than I am conscious 
of them. So that, upon this hypothesis, the whole universe 
about me, bodies and spirits, sun, moon, stars, and earth, friends 
and relations, all things without exception, which I imagined to 
have a permanent existence whether I thought of them or not, 
vanish at once ; 

" And like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
Leave not a track beliind." 

I thought it unreasonable, my lord, upon the authority of 
philosophers, to admit a hypothesis which, in my opinion, over- 
turns all philosophy, all religion and virtue, and all common 
sense : and finding that all the systems concerning the human 
understanding which I was acquainted with, were built upon 
this hypothesis, I resolved to inquire into this subject anew, 
without regard to any hypothesis. 

What I now humbly present to your lordship, is the fruit of 
this inquiry, so far only as it regards the five senses. In which 
I claim no other merit, than that of having given great attention 
to the operations of my own mind, and of having expressed, with 
all the perspicuity I was able, what, I conceive, every man who 
gives the same attention, will feel and perceive. The produc- 
tions of imagination require a genius which soars above the 
common rank ; but the treasures of knowledge are commonly 
buried deep, and may be reached by those drudges who can dig 
with labour and patience, though they have not wings to fly. 
The experiments that were to be made in this investigation 
suited me, as. they required no other expense, but that of time 
and attention, which I could bestow. The leisure of an acade- 
mical life, disengaged from the pursuits of interest and ambition ; 
the duty of my profession, which obliged me to give prelections 
on these subjects to the youth ; and an early inclination to spe- 
culations of this kind, have enabled me, as I flatter myself, to 
give a more minute attention to the subject of this inquiry, than 
has been given before. 



398 DEDICATION. 

My thoughts upon this subject were, a good many years ago, 
put together in another form, for the use of my pupils; and 
afterwards were submitted to the judgment of a private philoso- 
phical society, of which I have the honour to be a member. A 
great part of this inquiry was honoured even by your lordship's 
perusal. And the encouragement which you, my lord, and 
others, whose friendship is my boast, and whose judgment I 
reverence, were pleased to give me, counterbalanced my timidity 
and diffidence, and determined me to offer it to the public. 

If it appears to your lordship to justify the common sense and 
reason of mankind, against the sceptical subtilties which, in this 
age, have endeavoured to put them out of countenance ; if it 
appears to throw any new light upon one of the noblest parts of 
the Divine workmanship ; the respect which your lordship puts 
upon the arts and sciences, and your attention to every thing 
which tends to the improvement of them, as well as to every 
thing else that contributes to the felicity of your country, leaves 
me no room to doubt of your favourable acceptance of this Essay, 
as the fruit of my industry in a profession wherein I am account- 
able to your lordship ; and as a testimony of the great esteem 
and respect wherewith I have the honour to be, 

My lord, 
Your lordship's most obliged, and most devoted servant, 

THOMAS REID. 

King's College, November 9, 1763. 



AN INQUIEY 

INTO 

THE HUMAN MIND 



CHAPTEE I. 



INTRODUCTION. 



I. The importance of the subject, and the means of prosecuting 
it. — The fabric of the human mind is curious and wonderful, as 
well as that of the human body. The faculties of the one are 
with no less wisdom adapted to their several ends, than the 
organs of the other. Nay, it is reasonable to think, that as the 
mind is a nobler work, and of a higher order than the body, even 
more of the wisdom and skill of the Divine Architect hath been 
employed in its structure. [It is, therefore, a subject highly 
worthy of inquiry (1) on its own account, but still more worthy 
(2) on account of the extensive influence which the knowledge of 
it hath over every other branch of science.] 

In the arts and sciences which have least connexion with the 
mind, its faculties are the engines which we must employ ; and 
the better we understand their nature and use, their defects and 
disorders, the more skilfully we shall apply them, and with the 
greater success. But in the noblest arts, the mind is also the 
subject upon which we operate. The painter, the poet, the 
actor, the orator, the moralist, and the statesman, attempt to 
operate upon the mind in different ways, and for different ends ; 
and they succeed, according as they touch properly the strings 
of the human frame. Nor can their several arts ever stand on 
a solid foundation, or rise to the dignity of science, until they 
are built on the principles of the human constitution. 

[Wise men now agree, or ought to agree in this — that there is 
but one way to the knowledge of nature's works — the way of 
observation and experiment.] By our constitution, we have a 
strong propensity to trace particular facts and observations to 
general rules, and to apply such general rules to account for 
other effects, or to direct us in the production of them. This 



OF THE HUMAN MIND. 



CHAP. I. 



400 

procedure of the understanding is familiar to every human crea- 
ture in the common affairs of life, and it is the only one by 
which any real discovery in philosophy can be made. 

i§F The man who first discovered that cold freezes water, and 
that heat turns it into vapour, proceeded on the same general 
principles, and in the same method, by which Newton discovered 
the law of gravitation and the properties of light. His regulce 
philosophandi are maxims of common sense, and are practised 
every day in" common life ; and he who philosophizes by other 
rules, either concerning the material system or concerning the 
mind, mistakes his aim. 

Conjectures and theories are the creatures of men, and will 
always be found very unlike the creatures of God. If we would 
know the works of God, we must consult themselves with atten- 
tion and humility, without daring to add anything of ours to 
what they declare. A just interpretation of nature is the only 
sound and orthodox philosophy : whatever we add of our own, 
is apocryphal, and of no authority. 

All our curious theories of the formation of the earth, of the 
generation of animals, of the origin of natural and moral evil, so 
far as thejr go beyond a just induction from facts, are vanity and 
folly, no less than the vortices of Des Cartes, or the Archseus of 
Paracelsus. Perhaps the philosophy of the mind hath been no 
less adulterated by theories than that of the material system. 
The theory of ideas is indeed very ancient, and hath been very 
universally received ; but as neither of these titles can give it 
authenticity, they ought not to screen it from a free and candid 
examination ; especially in this age, when it hath produced a 
system of scepticism, that seems to triumph over all science, and 
even over the dictates of common sense. 

[All that we know of the body, is owing to anatomical dis- 
section and observation, and it must be by an anatomy of the 
mind that we can discover its powers and principles.] 

II. The impediments to our knowledge of the mind. — But it 
must be acknowledged, that this kind of anatomy is much more 
difficult than the other ; and therefore it needs not seem strange, 
that mankind have made less progress in it. To attend accu- 
rately to the operations of our minds, and make them an object 
of thought, is no easy matter even to the contemplative, and to 
the bulk of mankind is next to impossible. 

An anatomist who hath happy opportunities, may have access 
to examine with his own eyes, and with equal accuracy, bodies of 
all different ages, sexes, and conditions ; so that what is defective, 
obscure, or preternatural in one, may be discerned clearly, and 
in its most perfect state in another. But the anatomist of 
the mind cannot have the same advantage. It is his own mind only 
that he can examine with any degree of accuracy and distinct- 



INTRODUCTION. 4QJ 

ness. This is the only subject he can look into. He may, from 
outward signs, collect the operations of other minds ; but these 
signs are for the most part ambiguous, and must be interpreted 
by what he perceives within himself. 

So that if a philosopher could delineate to us distinctly and 
methodically all the operations of the thinking principle within 
him, which no man was ever able to do, this would be only the 
anatomy of one particular subject ; which would be both deti- 
cient and erroneous, if applied to human natuie in general. For 
a little reflection may satisfy us, that the difference of minds is 
greater than that of any other beings, which we consider as of 
the same species. 

Of the various powers and faculties we possess, there are some 
which nature seems both to have planted and reared, so as to 
have left nothing to human industry. Such are the powers 
which we have in common with the brutes, and which are neces- 
sary to the preservation of the individual, or the continuance of 
the kind. There are other powers, of which nature hath only 
planted the seeds in our minds, but hath left the rearing of them 
to human culture. It is by the proper culture of these, that we 
are capable of all those improvements in intellectuals, in taste, 
and in morals, which exalt and dignify human nature ; while, on 
the other hand, the neglect or perversion of them makes its de- 
generacy and corruption. 

B5F The two-legged animal that eats of nature's dainties what 
his taste or appetite craves, and satisfies his thirst at the crystal 
fountain, who propagates his kind as occasion and lust prompt, 
repels injuries, and takes alternate labour and repose, is, like a 
tree in the forest, purely of nature's growth. But this same 
savage hath within him the seeds of the logician, the man of taste 
and breeding, the orator, the statesman, the man of virtue, and 
the saint ; which seeds, though planted in his mind by nature, 
yet through want of culture and exercise, must lie for ever 
buried, and be hardly perceivable by himself or by others. 

The lowest degree of social life will bring to light some of 
those principles which lay hid in the savage state ; and according 
to his training, and company, and manner of life, some of them, 
either by their native vigour, or by the force of culture, will 
thrive and grow up to great perfection, others will be strangely 
perverted from their natural form, and others checked, or per- 
haps quite eradicated. 

This makes human nature so various and multiform in the 
individuals that partake of it, that in point of morals, and intel- 
lectual endowments, it fills up all that gap which we conceive to 
be between brutes and devils below, and the celestial orders above ; 
and such a prodigious diversity of minds must make it extremely 
difficult to discover the common principles of the species. 

2d 










402 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. I. 

The language of philosophers with regard to the original 
faculties of the mind, is so adapted to the prevailing system, that 
it cannot fit any other ; BUT like a coat that fits the man for whom 
it was made, and shows him to advantage, which yet will sit very 
awkward upon one of a different make, although perhaps as 
handsome and as well proportioned. It is hardly possible to 
make any innovation in our philosophy concerning the mind and 
its operations, without using new words and phrases, or giving a 
different meaning to those that are received; a liberty which, 
even when necessary, creates prejudice and misconstruction, and 
which must wait the sanction of time to authorize it. For inno- 
vations in language, like those in religion and government, are 
always suspected and disliked by the many, till use hath made 
them familiar, and prescription hath given them a title. 

If the original perceptions and notions of the mind were to 
make their appearance single and unmixed, as we first received 
them from the hand of nature, one accustomed to reflection 
would have less difficulty in tracing them ; but before we are 
capable of reflection, they are so mixed, compounded, and de- 
compounded, by habits, associations, and abstractions, that it is 
hard to know what they were originally. iiF The mind may in 
this respect be compared to an apothecary or chemist; whose 
materials indeed are furnished by nature ; but for the purposes of 
his art, he mixes, compounds, dissolves, evaporates, and sublimes 
them, till they put on a quite different appearance ; so that it is 
very difficult to know what they were at first, and much more to 
bring them back to their original and natural form. And this 
work of the mind is not carried on by deliberate acts of mature 
reason, which we might recollect, but by means of instincts, 
habits, associations, and other principles, which operate before 
we come to the use of reason ; so that it is extremely difficult 
for the mind to return upon its own footsteps, and trace back 
those operations which have employed it since it first began to 
think and to act. 

Could we obtain a distinct and full history of all that hath 
passed in the mind of a child from the beginning of life and sen- 
sation, till it grows up to the use of reason ; how its infant facul- 
ties began to work, and how they brought forth and ripened all 
the various notions, opinions, and sentiments, which we find in 
ourselves when we come to be capable of reflection ; this would 
be a treasure of natural history, which would probably give more 
light into the human faculties, than all the systems of philoso- 
phers about them since the beginning of the world. But it is in 
vain to wish for what nature has not put within the reach of our 
power. [Reflection, the only instrument by which we can discern 
the powers of the mind, comes too late to observe the progress of 
nature in raising them from their infancy to perfection.] 



INTRODUCTION. 403 

It must therefore require great caution, and great application 
of mind, for a man that is grown up in all the prejudices of 
education, fashion, and philosophy, to unravel his notions and 
opinions, till he finds out the simple and original principles of 
his constitution, of which no account can be given but the will of 
our Maker. This may be truly called an analysis of the human 
faculties ; and till this is performed, it is in vain we expect any 
just system of the mind ; that is, an enumeration of the original 
powers and laws of our constitution, and an explication from 
them of the various phenomena of human nature. 

Success, in an inquiry of this kind, it is not in human power 
to command ; but perhaps it is possible, by caution and humi- 
lity, to avoid error and delusion. The labyrinth may be too 
intricate, and the thread too fine, to be traced through all its 
windings ; but if we stop where we can trace it no farther, and 
secure the ground we have gained, there is no harm done ; a 
quicker eye may in time trace it farther. 

It is genius, and not the want of it, that adulterates philoso- 
phy, and fills it with error and false theory. A creative imagin- 
ation disdains the mean offices of digging for a foundation, of 
removing rubbish, and carrying materials : leaving these servile 
employments to the drudges in science, it plans a design, and 
raises a fabric. Invention supplies materials where they are 
wanting, and fancy adds colouring, and every befitting ornament. 
The work pleases the eye, and wants nothing but solidity and a 
good foundation. It seems even to vie with the works of nature, 
till the envious blast of some succeeding architect blows it into 
rubbish, and builds as goodly a fabric of his own in its place. 
Happily for the present age, the castle-builders employ them- 
selves more in romance than in philosophy. That is undoubt- 
edly their province, and in those regions the offspring of fancy 
is legitimate, but in philosophy it is all spurious. 

III. The present state of this part of philosophy. Of Des 
Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke. — That our philosophy concern- 
ing the mind and its faculties is but in a very low state, may be 
reasonably conjectured, even by those who never have narrowly 
examined it. Are there any principles with regard to the mind, 
settled with that perspicuity and evidence, which attends the 
principles of mechanics, astronomy, and optics ? These are 
really sciences, built upon laws of nature which universally 
obtain. What is discovered in them, is no longer matter of dis- 
pute : future ages may add to it, but till the course of nature be 
changed, what is already established can never be overturned. 
But when we turn our attention inward, and consider the phe- 
nomena of human thoughts, opinions, and perceptions, and en- 
deavour to trace them to the general laws and the first principles 
of our constitution, we are immediately involved in darkness and 

2 d 2 



404 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. I. 

perplexity. And if common sense, or the principles of educa- 
tion, happen not to be stubborn, it is odds but we end in abso- 
lute scepticism. 

(1) [Des Cartes finding nothing established in this part of 
philosophy, in order to lay the foundation of it deep, resolved 
not to believe his own existence till he should be able to give a 
good reason for it.] He was, perhaps, the first that took up 
such a resolution : but if he could indeed have effected his pur- 
pose, and really become diffident of his existence, his case would 
have been deplorable, and without any remedy from reason or 
philosophy. A man that disbelieves his own existence, is surely 
as unfit to be reasoned with, as a man that believes he is made 
of glass. There may be disorders in the human frame that may 
produce such extravagances, but they will never be cured by 
reasoning. Des Cartes, indeed, would make us believe, that he 
got out of this delirium by this logical argument, " Cogito, ergo 
sum." But it is evident he was in his senses all the time, and 
never seriously doubted of his existence. For he takes it for 
granted in this argument, and proves nothing at all. I am think- 
ing, says he, therefore I am : and is it not as good reasoning to 
say, I am sleeping, therefore I am ? or, I am doing nothing, 
therefore I am ? If a body moves, it must exist, no doubt ; but 
if it is at rest, it must exist likewise.* 

Perhaps Des Cartes meant not to assume his own existence in 
this enthymeme, but the existence of thought ; and to infer from 
that the existence of a mind, or subject of thought. But why 
did he not prove the existence of his thought ? Consciousness, 
it may be said, vouches that. But who is voucher for conscious- 
ness ? Can any man prove that his consciousness may not deceive 
him ? No man can : nor can we give a better reason for trust- 
ing to it, than that every man, while his mind is sound, is deter- 
mined, by the constitution of his nature, to give implicit belief to 
it, and to laugh at or pity the man who doubts its testimony. 
And is not every man in his wits, as much determined to take 
his existence upon trust as his consciousness ? 

(2) [The other proposition assumed in this argument, That 
thought cannot be without a mind or subject, is liable to the same 
objection : not that it wants evidence ; but that its evidence is 
no clearer, nor more immediate, than that of the proposition to 
be proved by it.] And taking all these propositions together, — 
I think, — I am conscious, — every thing that thinks exists, — I 
exist, — would not every sober man form the same opinion of the 
man who seriously doubted any one of them ? And if he was 
his friend, would he not hope for his cure from physic and good 
regimen, rather than from metaphysics and logic ? 

But supposing it proved that my thought and my conscious- 
* Vide Essays on the Intellectual Powers, Essay II., chap, viii., sect. 7. 



INTRODUCTION. 405 

ness must have a subject, and consequently that I exist, how do 
1 know that all that train and succession of thoughts which I re- 
member, belong to one subject, and that the I of this moment 
is the very individual I of yesterday, and of times past ? 

Des Cartes did not think proper to start this doubt : but Mr. 
Locke has done it ; and in order to resolve it, gravely determines, 
that "personal identity consists in consciousness ;" that is, if you 
are conscious that you did such a thing a twelvemonth ago, this 
consciousness makes you to be the very person that did it. 
Now, consciousness of what is past, can signify nothing else but 
the remembrance that I did it. So that Mr. Locke's principle 
must be, that identity consists in remembrance; and conse- 
quently a man must lose his personal identity with regard to 
every thing he forgets.* 

Nor are these the only instances whereby our philosophy con- 
cerning the mind appears to be very fruitful in creating doubts, 
but very unhappy in resolving them. 

Des Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke, have all employed their 
genius and skill to prove the existence of a material world ; and 
with very bad success. Poor untaught mortals believe, undoubt- 
edly, that there is a sun, moon, and stars ; an earth, which we 
inhabit ; country, friends, and relations, which we enjoy ; land, 
houses, and moveables, which we possess. But philosophers, 
pitying the credulity of the vulgar, resolve to have no faith but 
what is founded on reason. They apply to philosophy to furnish 
them with reasons for the belief of those things which all man- 
kind have believed, without being able to give any reason for it. 
And surely one would expect that in matters of such importance 
the proof would not be difficult : but it is the most difficult thing 
in the world. For [these three great men, with the best good will, 
have not been able, from all the treasures of philosophy, to 
draw one argument that is fit to convince a man that can reason, 
of the existence of any one thing without him.] Admired phi- 
losophy ! daughter of light ! parent of wisdom and knowledge ! 
if thou art she ! surely thou hast not yet risen upon the 
human mind, nor blessed us with more of thy rays than are suffi- 
cient to shed a darkness visible upon the human faculties, and 
to disturb that repose and security which happier mortals enjoy, 
who never approached thine altar, nor felt thine influence ! But 
if, indeed, thou hast not power to dispel these clouds and phantoms 
which thou hast discovered or created, withdraw this penurious 
and malignant ray : I despise philosophy, and renounce its guid- 
ance : let my soul dwell with common sense. 

IV. Apology for these philosophers. — But instead of de- 
spising the dawn of light, we ought rather to hope for its in- 

* Vide Essay on the Intellectual Powers, &c, Essay I J I., chap, vi., sect. 1, 
et seq. 



4Q6 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. I. 

crease ; instead of Tblaming the philosophers I have mentioned, 
for the defects and blemishes of their system, we ought rather 
to honour their memories, as the first discoverers of a region in 
^philosophy formerly unknown ; and however lame and imperfect 
the system may be, they have opened the way to future disco- 
veries, and are justly entitled to a great share in the merit of 
them. They have removed an infinite deal of dust and rubbish col- 
lected in the ages of scholastic sophistry, which had obstructed the 
way. They have put us in the right road, that of experience 
and accurate reflection. They have taught us to avoid the snares 
of ambiguous and ill-defined words, and have spoken and thought 
upon this subject with a distinctness and perspicuity formerly 
unknown. They have made many openings that may lead 
to the discovery of truths which they did not reach, or to the 
detection of errors in which they were involuntarily entangled. 

It may be observed, that the defects and blemishes in the 
received philosophy concerning the mind, which have most 
exposed it to the contempt and ridicule of sensible men, 
have chiefly been owing to this : [That the votaries of this 
philosophy, from a natural prejudice in her favour, have en- 
deavoured to extend her jurisdiction beyond its just limits, and to 
call to her bar the dictates of common sense.] But these decline 
this jurisdiction ; they disdain the trial of reasoning, and disown 
its authority ; they neither claim its aid, nor dread its attacks. 

In this unequal contest betwixt common sense and philosophy, 
the latter will always come off both with dishonour and loss ; 
nor can she ever thrive till this rivalship is dropped, these en- 
croachments given up, and a cordial friendship restored : for in 
reality [common sense holds nothing of philosophy, nor needs 
her aid. But, on the other hand, philosophy (if I may be per- 
mitted to change the metaphor) has no other root but the prin- 
ciples of common sense ; it grows out of them, and draws its nou- 
rishment from them : severed from this root, its honours wither, 
its sap is dried up, it dies and rots.] 

The philosophers of the last age, whom I have mentioned, did 
not attend to the preserving this union and subordination so care- 
fully as the honour and interest of philosophy required : but 
those of the present have waged open war with common sense, 
and hope to make a complete conquest of it by the subtleties of 
philosophy ; an attempt no less audacious and vain, than that of 
the giants to dethrone almighty Jove. 

V. Of Bishop Berkeley ; the Treatise of Human Nature ; and 
of scepticism. — The present age, I apprehend, has not produced 
two more acute or more practised in this part of philosophy, 
than the Bishop of Cloyne, and the author of the " Treatise 
of Human Nature." The first was no friend to scepticism, but 
had that warm concern for religious and moral principles which 



INTRODUCTION. 407 

became his order : yet [the result of his inquiry was, a serious 
conviction, that there is no such thing as a material world; 
nothing in nature but spirits and ideas ; and that the belief of 
material substances, and of abstract ideas, are the chief causes 
of all our errors in philosophy, and of all infidelity and heresy 
in religion.] His arguments are founded upon the principles 
which were formerly laid down by Des Cartes, Malebranche, and 
Locke, and which have been very generally received. 

[And the opinion of the ablest judges seems to be, that they 
neither have been, nor can be confuted ; and that he hath proved by 
unanswerable arguments what no man in his senses can believe.'] 

The second proceeds upon the same principles, but carries 
them to their full length ; and as the bishop undid the whole 
material world, this author, upon the same grounds, undoes the 
world of spirits, and leaves nothing in nature but ideas and im- 
pressions, without any subject on which they may be impressed. 

It seems to be a peculiar strain of humour in this author, to 
set out in his introduction, by promising, with a grave face, no 
less than a complete system of the sciences, upon a foundation 
entirely new, to wit, that of human nature ; when the intention 
of the whole work is to show that there is neither human nature 
nor science in the world. It may perhaps be unreasonable to 
complain of this conduct in an author who neither believes his 
own existence nor that of his reader ; and therefore could not 
mean to disappoint him, or to laugh at his credulity. Yet I 
cannot imagine that the author of the " Treatise of Human 
Nature" is so sceptical as to plead this apology. He believed, 
against his principles, that he should be read, and that he should 
retain his personal identity, till he reaped the honour and repu- 
tation justly due to his metaphysical acumen. Indeed [he inge- 
nuously acknowledges, that it was only in solitude and retirement 
that he could yield any assent to his own philosophy ; society, 
like daylight, dispelled the darkness and fogs of scepticism, and 
made him yield to the dominion of common sense.] Nor did I 
ever hear him charged with doing anything, even in solitude, 
that argued such a degree of scepticism as his principles main- 
tain. Surely if his friends apprehended this, they would have 
had the charity never to leave him alone. 

Pyrrho the Elean, the father of this philosophy, seems to have 
carried it to greater perfection than any of his successors : for if 
we may believe Antigonus the Carystian, quoted by Diogenes 
Laertius, his life corresponded to his doctrine. And therefore, 
if a cart run against him, or a dog attacked him, or if he came 
upon a precipjce, he would not stir a foot to avoid the danger, 
giving no credit to his senses. But his attendants, who, happily 
for him, were not so great sceptics, took care to keep him out 
of harm's way ; so that he lived till he was ninety years of age. 



408 0F THE HUMAN MIND CHAP. I. 

Nor is it to be doubted but this author's friends would have 
been equally careful to keep him from harm, if ever his principles 
had taken too strong a hold of him. 

It is probable the " Treatise of Human Nature" was not 
written in company ; yet it contains manifest indications that 
the author every now and then relapsed into the faith of the 
vulgar, and could hardly, for half a dozen pages, keep up the 
sceptical character. 

In like manner the great Pyrrho himself forgot his principles 
on some ocasions ; and is said once to have been in such a pas- 
sion with his cook, who probably had not roasted his dinner to 
his mind, that with the spit in his hand, and the meat upon it, 
he pursued him even into the market-place. 

It is a bold philosophy that rejects, without ceremony, prin- 
ciples which irresistibly govern the belief and the conduct of all 
mankind in the common concerns of life ; and to which the phi- 
losopher himself must yield, after he imagines he hath confuted 
them. Such principles are older, and of more authority, than 
philosophy : she rests upon them as her basis, not they upon her.* 
If she could overturn them, she must be buried in their ruins ; 
but all the engines of philosophical subtlety are too weak for 
this purpose ; and the attempt is no less ridiculous than if a 
mechanic should contrive an axis in peritrochio to remove the 
earth out of its place ; or if a mathematician should pretend to 
demonstrate that things equal to the same thing are not equal 
to one another. 

Zeno endeavoured to demonstrate the impossibility of motion; 
Hobbes, that there was no difference between right and wrong ; 
and this author, that no credit is to be given to our senses, to 
our memory, or even to demonstration. Such philosophy is 
justly ridiculous, even to those who cannot detect the fallacy 
of it. It can have no other tendency than to show the acuteness 
of the sophist, at the expense of disgracing reason and human 
nature, and making mankind yahoos. 

VI. Of the " Treatise of Human Nature." — There are other 
prejudices against this system of human nature, which even 
upon a general view, may make one diffident of it. 

Des Cartes, Hobbes, and this author, have each of them given 
us a system of human nature ; an undertaking too vast for any 
one man, how great soever his genius and abilities may be. 
There must surely be reason to apprehend, that many parts of 
human nature never came under their observation ; and that 
others have been stretched and distorted, to fill up blanks, and 
complete the system. Christopher Columbus, or Sebastian Cabot, 
might almost as reasonably have undertaken to give us a com- 
plete map of America. 

* Vide p. 406. 



INTRODUCTION. 4Q9 

There is a certain character and style in nature's works, which 
is never attained in the most perfect imitation of them. This 
seems to be wanting in the systems of human nature I have 
mentioned, and particularly in the last. One may see a puppet 
make a variety of motions and gesticulations, which strike much 
at first view ; but when it is accurately observed, and taken to 
pieces, our admiration ceases ; we comprehend the whole art of 
the maker. How unlike is it to that which it represents ! what 
a poor piece of work compared with the body of a man, whose 
structure the more we know the more wonders we discover in it, 
and the more sensible we are of our ignorance ! Is the mechan- 
ism of the mind so easily comprehended, when that of the body 
is so difficult ? Yet by this system, three laws of association, 
joined to a few original feelings, explain the whole mechanism 
of sense, imagination, memory, belief, and of all the actions and 
passions of the mind. Is this the man that nature made ? I 
suspect it is not so easy to look behind the scenes in nature's 
work. This is a puppet surely, contrived by too bold an ap- 
prentice of nature to mimic her work. It shows tolerably by 
candlelight, but brought into clear day, and taken to pieces, it 
will appear to be a man made with mortar and a trowel. The 
more we know of other parts of nature, the more we like and 
approve them. The little I know of the planetary system ; of 
the earth which we inhabit ; of minerals, vegetables, and ani- 
mals ; of my own body, and of the laws which obtain in these 
parts of nature, opens to my mind grand and beautiful scenes, 
and contributes equally to my happiness and power. But when 
I look within, and consider the mind itself, which makes me 
capable of all these prospects and enjoyments; if it is indeed 
what the " Treatise of Human Nature" makes it, I find I have 
been only in an enchanted castle, imposed upon by spectres and 
apparitions. I blush inwardly to think how I have been deluded ; 
I am ashamed of my frame, and can hardly forbear expostulating 
with my destiny: Is this thy pastime, O Nature, to put such 
tricks upon a silly creature, and then to take off the mask, and 
show him how he hath been befooled ? If this is the philosophy 
of human nature, my soul enter thou not into her secrets. It is 
surely the forbidden tree of knowledge ; I no sooner taste of it, 
than I perceive myself naked, and stripped of all things, yea 
even of my very self. I see myself, and the whole frame of 
nature, shrink into fleeting ideas, which, like Epicurus's atoms, 
dance about in emptiness. 

VII. The system of all these authors is the same, and leads to 
scepticism. — But what if these profound disquisitions into the 
first principles of human nature, do naturally and necessarily 
plunge a man into this abyss of scepticism ? May we not rea- 
sonably judge so from what hath happened? Des Cartes no 



410 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. I. 

sooner began to dig in this mine, than scepticism was ready to 
break in upon him. He did what he could to shut it out. Male- 
branche and Locke, who dug deeper, found the difficulty of 
keeping out this enemy still to increase : but they laboured 
honestly in the design. Then Berkeley, who carried on the 
work, despairing of securing all, bethought himself of an expe- 
dient : by giving up the material world, which he thought might 
be spared without loss, and even with advantage, he hoped by 
an impregnable partition to secure the world of spirits. But, 
alas! the " Treatise of Human Nature" wantonly sapped the foun- 
dation of this partition, and drowned all in one universal deluge. 
These facts, which are undeniable, do indeed give reason to 
apprehend, that Des Cartes's system of the human understand- 
ing, which I shall beg leave to call the ideal system, and which, 
with some improvements made by later writers, is now generally 
received, hath some original defect ; that this scepticism is inlaid 
in it, and reared along with it ; and, therefore, that we must lay 
it open to the foundation, and examine the materials before we 
can expect to raise any solid and useful fabric of knowledge on 
this subject. 

VIII. We ought not to despair of a better. — But is this to be 
despaired of, because Des Cartes and his followers have failed ? 
By no means. This pusillanimity would be injurious to our- 
selves, and injurious to truth. Useful discoveries are sometimes 
indeed the effect of superior genius, but more frequently they 
are the birth of time and of accidents. flUF A traveller of good 
judgment may mistake his way, and be unawares led into a wrong 
track; and while the road is fair before him, he may go on with- 
out suspicion, and be followed by others ; but when it ends in a 
coal-pit, it requires no great judgment to know that he hath gone 
wrong, nor perhaps to find out what misled him. 

In the mean time the unprosperous state of this part of philo- 
sophy hath produced an effect, somewhat discouraging indeed to 
any attempt of this nature, but an effect which might be expected, 
and which time only and better success can remedy. Sensible 
men, who never will be sceptics in matters of common life, are 
apt to treat with sovereign contempt every thing that hath been 
said, or is to be said, upon this subject. It is metaphysic, say 
they : who minds it ? Let scholastic sophisters entangle them- 
selves in their own cobwebs ; I am resolved to take my own 
existence, and the existence of other things, upon trust ; and to 
believe that snow is cold, and honey sweet, whatever they may 
say to the contrary. He must either be a fool, or want to make 
a fool of me, that would reason me out of my reason and senses. 

I confess I know not what a sceptic can answer to this, nor 
by what good argument he can plead even for a hearing ; for 
either his reasoning is sophistry, and so deserves contempt ; or 



OF SMELLING. 



411 

there is no truth in the human faculties, and then why should we 



reason 



If, therefore, a man find himself entangled in these metaphysi- 
cal toils, and can find no other way to escape, let him bravely cut 
the knot which he cannot loose, curse metaphysic, and dissuade 
every man from meddling with it. For if I have been led into 
bogs and quagmires by following an ignis fatuus, what can I do 
better than to warn others to beware of it ? If philosophy con- 
tradicts herself, befools her votaries, and deprives them of every 
object worthy to be pursued or enjoyed, let her be sent back to 
the infernal regions from which she must have had her original. 

But is it absolutely certain that this fair lady is of the party ? 
Is it not possible she may have been misrepresented ? Have not 
men of genius in former ages often made their own dreams to 
pass for her oracles ? Ought she then to be condemned without any 
further hearing? This would be unreasonable. [I have found 
her in all other matters an agreeable companion, a faithful coun- 
sellor, a friend to common sense, and to the happiness of mankind. 
This justly entitles her to my correspondence and confidence, till 
I find infallible proofs of her infidelity.] 



CHAPTER II. 



OF SMELLING. 



I. The order of proceeding. Of the medium and organ of smell. 
— It is so difficult to unravel the operations of the human under- 
standing, and to reduce them to their first principles, that we 
cannot expect to succeed in the attempt, but by beginning with 
the simplest, and proceeding by very cautious steps to the more 
complex. The five external senses may for this reason claim to 
be first considered in an analysis of the human faculties. And 
the same reason ought to determine us to make a choice even 
among the senses, and to give the precedence, not to the noblest, 
or most useful, but to the simplest, and that whose objects are 
least in danger of being mistaken for other things. 

In this view, an analysis of our sensations may be carried on 
perhaps with most ease and distinctness, by taking them in this 
order : Smelling, Tasting, Hearing, Touch, and, last of all, 
Seeing. 

Natural philosophy informs us, that all animal and vegetable 
bodies, and probably all or most other bodies, while exposed to 
the air, are continually sending forth effluvia of vast subtlety, not 
only in their state of life and growth, but in the states of fer- 
mentation and putrefaction. These volatile particles do probably 



41g OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 

repel each other, and so scatter themselves in the air, until they 
meet with other bodies to which they have some chemical affinity, 
and with which they unite, and form new concretes. All the 
smell of plants, and of other bodies, is caused by these volatile 
parts, and is smelled wherever they are scattered in the air : and 
the acuteness of smell in some animals, shows us that these 
effluvia spread far, and must be inconceivably subtile. 

Whether, as some chemists conceive, every species of bodies 
hath a spiritus rector, a kind of soul, which causes the smell, and 
all the specific virtues of that body, and which, being extremely 
volatile, flies about in the air in quest of a proper receptacle, I 
do not inquire. This, like most other theories, is perhaps rather 
the product of imagination than of just induction. But that all 
bodies are smelled by means of effluvia which they emit, and 
which are drawn into the nostrils along with the air, there is no 
reason to doubt. So that there is manifest appearance of design 
in placing the organ of smell in the inside of that canal, through 
which the air is continually passing in inspiration and expira- 
tion. 

Anatomy informs us, that the membrana pituitaria, and the 
olfactory nerves, which are distributed to the villous parts of 
this membrane, are the organs destined by the wisdom of nature 
to this sense : so that when a body emits no effluvia, or when 
they do not enter into the nose, or when the pituitary membrane 
or olfactory nerves are rendered unfit to perform their office, it 
cannot be smelled. 

[Yet, notwithstanding this, it is evident, that neither the organ 
of smell, nor the medium, nor any motions we can conceive excited 
in the membrane above mentioned, or in the nerve or animal 
spirits, do in the least resemble the sensation of smelling : nor 
could that sensation of itself ever have led us to think of nerves, 
animal spirits, or effluvia.] 

II. The sensation considered abstractly. — Having premised 
these things, with regard to the medium and organ of this sense, 
let us now attend carefully to what the mind is conscious of when 
we smell a rose or a lily ; and since our language affords no other 
name for this sensation, we shall call it a smell or odour, carefully 
excluding from the meaning of those names every thing but the 
sensation itself, at least till we have examined it. 

Suppose a person who never had this sense before, to receive 
it all at once, and to smell a rose ; can he perceive any similitude 
or agreement between the smell and the rose ? or indeed between 
it and any other object whatsoever ? Certainly he cannot. He 
finds himself affected in a new way, he knows not why, or from 
what cause. Like a man that feels some pain or pleasure 
formerly unknown to him, he is conscious that he is not the 
cause of it himself; but cannot, from the nature of the thing, 



OF SMELLING. ^jg 

determine whether it is caused by body or spirit, by something 
near, or by something at a distance. It has no similitude to any- 
thing else, so as to admit of a comparison ; and therefore he can 
conclude nothing from it, unless perhaps that there must be some 
unknown cause of it. 

It is evidently ridiculous, to ascribe to it figure, colour, exten- 
sion, or any other quality of bodies. He cannot give it a place, 
any more than he can give a place to melancholy or joy: nor can 
he conceive it to have any existence, but when it is smelled. So 
that it appears to be a simple and original affection or feeling 
of the mind, altogether inexplicable and unaccountable. It is 
indeed impossible that it can be in any body : it is a sensation, 
and a sensation can only be in a sentient thing. 

The various odours have each their different degrees of strength 
or weakness. Most of them are agreeable or disagreeable ; and 
frequently those that are agreeable when weak, are disagreeable 
when stronger. When we compare different smells together, we 
can perceive very few resemblances or contrarieties, or indeed 
relations of any kind between them : they are all so simple in 
themselves, and so different from each other, that it is hardly 
possible to divide them into genera and species. Most of the 
names we give them are particular ; as the smell of a rose, of a 
jessamine, and the like. . Yet there are some general names ; as 
sweet, stinking, musty, -putrid, cadaverous, aromatic. Some of 
them seem to refresh and animate the mind, others to deaden 
and depress it. 

III. Sensation and its remembrance natural principles of be- 
lief. — So far we have considered this sensation abstractly. Let 
us next compare it with other things to which it bears some 
relation. And first I shall compare this sensation with the re- 
membrance and the imagination of it. 

I can think of the smell of a rose when I do not smell it ; and 
it is possible that when I think of it, there is neither rose nor 
smell any where existing. But when I smell it, I am necessarily 
determined to believe that the sensation really exists. This is 
common to all sensations, that as they cannot exist but in being 
perceived, so they cannot be perceived but they must exist. I 
could as easily doubt of my own existence, as of the existence 
of my sensations. Even those profound philosophers who have 
endeavoured to disprove their own existence, have yet left their 
sensations to stand upon their own bottom, stript of a subject, 
rather than call in question the reality of their existence. 

Here then a sensation, a smell for instance, may be presented 
to the mind three different ways ; it may be smelled, it may be 
remembered, it may be imagined or thought of. In the first 
case, it is necessarily accompanied with a belief of its present 
existence ; in the second, it is necessarily accompanied with a 



414 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 

belief of its past existence ; and in the last, it is not accompanied 
with belief at all, but is what the logicians call a simple appre- 
hension. 

Why sensation should compel our belief of the present exist- 
ence of the thing, memory a belief of its past existence, and 
imagination no belief at all, is what I believe no philosopher can 
give a shadow of reason for, but that such is the nature of these 
operations : they are all simple and original) and therefore inex- 
plicable acts of the mind. 

Suppose that once, and only once, I smelled a tuberose in a 
certain room where it grew in a pot, and gave a very grateful 
perfume. Next day I relate what I saw and smelled. When I 
attend as carefully as I can to what passes in my mind in this 
case, it appears evident, that the very thing I saw yesterday, and 
the fragrance I smelled, are now the immediate objects of my 
mind when I remember it. Further, I can imagine this pot and 
flower transported to the room where I now sit, and yielding the 
same perfume. Here likewise it appears, that the individual 
thing which I saw and smelled, is the object of my imagina- 
tion. 

[Philosophers indeed tell me, that the immediate object of my 
memory and imagination in this case, is not the past sensation, 
but an idea of it, an image, phantasm, or species of the odour I 
smelled : that this idea presently exists in my mind, or in my 
sensorium ; and the mind contemplating this present idea, finds 
it a representation of what is past, or of what may exist ; and 
accordingly calls it memory, or imagination.] This is the doc- 
trine of the ideal philosophy ; which we shall not now examine, 
that we may not interrupt the thread of the present investiga- 
tion. Upon the strictest attention, memory appears to me to 
have things that are past, and not present ideas, for its object. 
[We shall afterwards examine this system of ideas, and endea- 
vour to make it appear, that no solid proof has ever been advanced 
of the existence of ideas ; that they are a mere fiction and hypo- 
thesis, contrived to solve the phenomena of the human under- 
standing ; that they do not at all answer this end ; and that this 
hypothesis of ideas or images of things in the mind, or in the 
sensorium, is the parent of those many paradoxes so shocking to 
common sense, and of that scepticism, which disgrace our philo- 
sophy of the mind, and have brought upon it the ridicule and 
contempt of sensible men.] 

In the mean time, I beg leave to think with the vulgar, that 
when I remember the smell of the tuberose, that very sensation 
which I had yesterday, and which has now no more any existence, 
is the immediate object of my memory ; and when I imagine it 
present, the sensation itself, and not any idea of it, is the object 
of my imagination. But though the object of my sensation, 



OF SMELLING. 415 

memory, and imagination, be in this case the same, yet these 
acts or operations of the mind are as different, and as easily dis- 
tinguishable, as smell, taste, and sound. I am conscious of a 
difference in kind between sensation and memory, and between 
both and imagination. I find this also, that the sensation com- 
pels my belief of the present existence of the smell, and memory 
my belief of its past existence. There is a smell, is the imme- 
diate testimony of sense ; there was a smell, is the immediate 
testimony of memory. If you ask me why I believe that the 
smell exists, I can give no other reason, nor will ever be able to 
give any other, than that I smell it. If you ask why I believe 
that it existed yesterday, I can give no other reason but that I 
remember it. 

Sensation and memory, therefore, are simple, original, and 
perfectly distinct operations of the mind, and both of them are 
original principles of belief. Imagination is distinct from both, 
but is no principle of belief. Sensation implies the present 
existence of its object ; memory its past existence ; but imagina- 
tion views its object naked, and without any belief of its exist- 
ence or non-existence, and is therefore what the schools call 
simple apprehension. 

IY. Judgment and belief in some cases precede simple appre- 
hension. — But here again the ideal system comes in our way : 
it teaches us, that the first operation of the mind about its 
ideas, is simple apprehension ; that is, the bare conception of a 
thing without any belief about it; and that after we have got 
simple apprehensions, by comparing them together, we perceive 
agreements or disagreements between them ; and that this per- 
ception of the agreement or disagreement of ideas is all that we 
call belief, judgment, or knowledge. Now, this appears to me 
to be all fiction, without any foundation in nature : for it is ac- 
knowledged by all, that sensation must go before memory and 
imagination; and hence it necessarily follows that apprehension, 
accompanied with belief and knowledge, must go before simple 
apprehension, at least in the matters we are now speaking of. 
So that here, [instead of saying, that the belief or knowledge is 
got by putting together and comparing the simple apprehensions, 
we ought rather to say, that the simple apprehension is performed 
by resolving and analyzing a natural and original judgment.] 
And it is with the operations of the mind, in this case, as with 
natural bodies, which are indeed compounded of simple princi- 
ples or elements. Nature does not exhibit these elements sepa- 
rate, to be compounded by us ; she exhibits them mixed and 
compounded in concrete bodies, and it is only by art and chemi- 
cal analysis that they can be separated. 

V. 'Two theories of the nature of belief refuted. Conclu- 



416 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 

sions from what hath been said. — But what is this belief or 
knowledge which accompanies sensation and memory ? Every 
man knows what it is, but no man can define it. Does any man 
pretend to define sensation, or to define consciousness ? It is 
happy, indeed, that no man does. And if no philosopher had 
endeavoured to define and explain belief, we had wanted some 
of those paradoxes of the ideal philosophy, which will always to 
sensible men appear as incredible as anything that ever enthusiasm 
dreamed or superstition swallowed. Of this kind surely is that 
modern discovery of the ideal philosophy, that sensation, me- 
mory, belief, and imagination, where they have the same object, 
are only different degrees of strength and vivacity in the idea. 
Suppose the idea to be that of a future state after death ; one 
man believes it firmly ; this means no more than that he hath a 
strong and lively idea of it : another neither believes nor disbe- 
lieves, that is, he has a weak and faint idea. Suppose now a 
third person believes firmly that there is no such thing ; I am at 
a loss to know whether his idea be faint or lively : if it is faint, 
then there may be a firm belief where the idea is faint ; if the 
idea is lively, then the belief of a future state and the belief of 
no future state must be one and the same. The same argu- 
ments that are used to prove that belief implies only a stronger 
idea of the object than simple apprehension, might as well be 
used to prove that love implies only a stronger idea of the object 
than indifference. And then what shall we say of hatred, which 
must upon this hypothesis be a degree of love, or a degree of 
indifference ? If it should be said, that in love there is some- 
thing more than an idea, to wit, an affection of the mind ; may 
it not be said with equal reason, that in belief there is something 
more than an idea, to wit, an assent or persuasion of the mind ? 
But perhaps it may be thought as ridiculous to argue against 
this strange opinion, as to maintain it. Indeed, if a man should 
maintain that a circle, a square, and a triangle, differ only in 
magnitude, and not in figure, I believe he would find nobody 
disposed either to believe him or to argue against him ; and yet 
I do not think it less shocking to common sense to maintain 
that sensation, memory, and imagination, differ only in degree, 
and not in kind. I know it is said, that in a delirium, or in 
dreaming, men are apt to mistake one for the other. But does 
it follow from this, that men who are neither dreaming, nor in 
a delirium, cannot distinguish them ? [But how does a man 
know, that he is not in a delirium? I cannot tell; neither can 
I tell how a man knows that he exists : but if any man seriously 
doubts whether he is in a delirium, I think it highly probable 
that he is, and that it is time to seek for a cure,] which I am 
persuaded he will not find in the whole system of logic. 



OF SMELLING. 4} 7 

I mentioned before Mr. Locke's notion of belief or knowledge : 
he holds that it consists in a perception of the agreement or dis- 
agreement of ideas ; and this he values himself upon as a very 
important discovery. 

[We shall have occasion afterwards to examine more particu- 
larly this grand principle of Mr. Locke's philosophy, and to show 
that it is one of the main pillars of modern scepticism, although 
Mr. Locke had no intention to make that use of it.] At pre- 
sent, let us only consider how it agrees with the instances of be- 
lief now under consideration ; and whether it gives any light to 
them. I believe that the sensation I have, exists ; and that the 
sensation I remember, does not now exist, but did exist yester- 
day. Here, according to Mr. Locke's system, I compare the 
idea of a sensation with the ideas of past and present existence : 
at one time I perceive that this idea agrees with that of present 
existence, but disagrees with that of past existence ; but at an- 
other time it agrees with the idea of past existence, and disagrees 
with that of present existence. Truly these ideas seem to be 
very capricious in their agreements and disagreements. Be- 
sides, I cannot for my heart conceive what is meant by either. 
I say a sensation exists, and I think I understand clearly what 
I mean. But you want to make the thing clearer, and for that 
end tell me, that there is an agreement between the idea of that 
sensation and the idea of existence. To speak freely, this con- 
veys to me no light, but darkness ; I can conceive no otherwise 
of it, than as an odd and obscure circumlocution. I conclude, 
then, that the belief which accompanies sensation and memory, 
is a simple act of the mind, which cannot be defined. It is in 
this respect like seeing and hearing, which can never be so de- 
fined as to be understood by those who have not these faculties ; 
and to such as have them, no definition can make these opera- 
tions more clear than they are already. In like manner, every 
man that has any belief, (and he must be a curiosity that has 
none,) knows perfectly what belief is, but can never define or 
explain it. I conclude also, that sensation, memory, and ima- 
gination, even where they have the same object, are operations 
of a quite different nature, and perfectly distinguishable by those 
who are sound and sober. A man that is in danger of confound- 
ing them, is indeed to be pitied ; but whatever relief he may find 
from another art, he can find none from logic or metaphysics. I 
conclude further, that it is no less a part of the human constitu- 
tion, to believe the present existence of our sensations, and to 
believe the past existence of what we remember, than it is to be- 
lieve that twice two make four. [The evidence of (1) sense, the 
evidence of (2) memory, and the evidence of the (3) necessary 
relations of things, are all distinct and original kinds of evidence, 

2e 



418 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 

equally grounded on our constitution : none of them is depend- 
ent upon or resolvable into any of the rest.] To reason against 
any of these kinds of evidence is absurd ; nay, to reason for them 
is absurd. They are first principles ; and such fall not within 
the province of reason, but of common sense. 

VI. Apology for metaphysical absurdities. Sensation without 
a sentient, a consequence of the theory of ideas. Consequences of 
this strange opinion. — Having considered the relation which the 
sensation of smelling bears to the remembrance and imagination 
of it, I proceed to consider, what relation it bears to a mind, or 
sentient principle. It is certain, no man can conceive or believe 
smelling to exist of itself, without a mind, or something that has 
the power of smelling, of which it is called a sensation, an opera- 
tion, or feeling. Yet if any man should demand a proof, that 
sensation cannot be without a mind, or sentient being, I confess 
that I can give none ; and that to pretend to prove it, seems to 
me almost as absurd as to deny it. 

This might have been said without any apology before the 
" Treatise of Human Nature" appeared in the world. For till 
that time no man, as far as I know, ever thought either of calling 
in question that principle, or of giving a reason for his belief of 
it. Whether thinking beings were of an ethereal or igneous 
nature, whether material or immaterial, was variously disputed ; 
but that thinking is an operation of some kind of being or other, 
was always taken for granted, as a principle that could not pos- 
sibly admit of doubt. 

However, since the author above mentioned, who is undoubt- 
edly one of the most acute metaphysicians that this or any age 
hath produced, hath treated it as a vulgar prejudice, and main- 
tained, that the mind is only a succession of ideas and impres- 
sions, without any subject ; his opinion, however contrary to the 
common apprehensions of mankind, deserves respect. I beg, 
therefore, once for all, that no offence may be taken at charging 
this or other metaphysical notions with absurdity, or with being 
contrary to the common sense of mankind. No disparagement is 
meant to the understandings of the authors or maintainers of 
such opinions. [Indeed they commonly proceed not from defect 
of understanding, but from an excess of refinement : the reason- 
ing that leads to them, often gives new light to the subject, and 
shows real genius and deep penetration in the author ; and the 
premises do more than atone for the conclusion.] 

[If there are certain principles, as I think there are, which 
the constitution of our nature leads us to believe, and which we 
are under a necessity to take for granted in the common concerns 
of life, without being able to give a reason for them ; these are 
what we call the principles of common sense ; and what is mani- 
festly contrary to them, is what we call absurd.] 



OF SMELLING. 41 9 

Indeed, if it is true, and to be received as a principle of philo- 
sophy, " That sensation and thought may be without a thinking 
being ;" it must be acknowledged to be the most wonderful dis- 
covery that this or any other age hath produced. The received 
doctrine of ideas is the principle from which it is deduced, and of 
which indeed it seems to be a just and natural consequence. And 
it is probable, that it would not have been so late a discovery, 
but that it is so shocking and repugnant to the common appre- 
hensions of mankind, that it required an uncommon degree of 
philosophical intrepidity to usher it into the world. It is a 
fundamental principle of the ideal system, that every object of 
thought must be an impression, or an idea, that is, a faint copy 
of some preceding impression. This is a principle so commonly 
received, that the author above mentioned, although his whole 
system is built upon it, never offers the least proof of it. It is 
upon this principle, as a fixed point, that he erects his metaphy- 
sical engines, to overturn heaven and earth, body and spirit. 
And indeed, in my apprehension, it is altogether sufficient for 
the purpose. For if impressions and ideas are the only objects 
of thought, then heaven and earth, and body and spirit, and 
every thing you please, must signify only impressions and ideas, 
or they must be words without any meaning. It seems, there- 
fore, that this notion, however strange, is closely connected with 
the received doctrine of ideas, and we must either admit the 
conclusion, or call in question the premises. 

Ideas seem to have something in their nature unfriendly to 
other existences. They were first introduced into philosophy, 
in the humble character of images or representatives of things ; 
and in this character they seemed not only to be inoffensive, but 
to serve admirably well for explaining the operations of the 
human understanding. But since men began to reason clearly 
and distinctly about them, they have by degrees supplanted their 
constituents, and undermined the existence of every thing but 
themselves. First they discarded all secondary qualities of bodies ; 
and it was found out by their means, that fire is not hot, nor 
snow cold, nor honey sweet ; and, in a word, that heat and cold, 
sound, colour, taste, and smell, are nothing but ideas or impres- 
sions. Bishop Berkeley advanced them a step higher, and found 
out, by just reasoning, from the same principles, that extension, 
solidity, space, figure, and body, are ideas, and that there is 
nothing in nature but ideas and spirits. But the triumph of 
ideas was completed by the " Treatise of Human Nature," which 
discards spirits also, and leaves ideas and impressions as the sole 
existences in the universe. What if at last, having nothing else 
to contend with, they should fall foul of one another, and leave 
no existence in nature at all ? This would surely bring philosophy 

2 e 2 



420 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 

into danger ; for what should we have left to talk or to dispute 
about ? 

[However, hitherto these philosophers acknowledge the exist- 
ence of impressions and ideas ; they acknowledge certain laws of 
attraction, or rules of precedence, according to which ideas and 
impressions range themselves in various forms, and succeed one 
another : but that they should belong to a mind, as its proper 
goods and chattels, this they have found to be a vulgar error.] 
These ideas are as free and independent as the birds of the air, 
or as Epicurus's atoms when they pursued their journey in the 
vast inane. Shall we conceive them like the films of things in 
the Epicurean system ? 

" Principio hoc dico, rerum simulacra vagari, 
Multa modis multis, in cunctas undique parteis 
Tenuia, quae facile inter se junguntur in auris, 
Obvia cum veniunt." — Lucr. 
" I assert that many images of things wander freely, attenuated forms, into 
every part of the universe, which, when they meet, are readily united in the 
atmosphere." 

Or do they rather resemble Aristotle's intelligible species after 
they are shot forth from the object, and before they have yet 
struck upon the passive intellect ? But why should we seek to 
compare them with any thing, since there is nothing in nature 
but themselves ? They make the whole furniture of the uni- 
verse ; starting into existence, or out of it, without any cause ; 
combining into parcels, which the vulgar call minds ; and suc- 
ceeding one another by fixed laws, without time, place, or author 
of those laws. 

Yet after all, these self-existent and independent ideas look 
pitifully naked and destitute, when left thus alone in the uni- 
verse, and seem, upon the whole, to be in a worse condition than 
they were before. Des Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke, as they 
made much use of ideas, treated them handsomely, and provided 
them in decent accommodation ; lodging them either in the 
pineal gland, or in the pure intellect, or even in the Divine 
mind. They moreover clothed them with a commission, and 
made them representatives of things, which gave them some 
dignity and character. But the " Treatise of Human Nature," 
though no less indebted to them, seems to have made but a bad 
return, by bestowing upon them this independent existence ; 
since thereby they are turned out of house and home, and set 
adrift in the world, without friend or connexion, without a rag 
to cover their nakedness : and who knows but the whole system 
of ideas may perish by the indiscreet zeal of their friends to 
exalt them ? 

However this may be, [it is certainly a most amazing discovery, 



OF SMELLING. ^ \ 

that thought and ideas may be zvithout any thinking being. A 
discovery big with consequences which cannot easily be traced 
by those deluded mortals who think and reason in the common 
track.] We were always apt to imagine, that thought supposed 
a thinker, and love a lover, and treason a traitor : but this, it 
seems, was all a mistake ; and it is found out, that there may be 
treason without a traitor, and love without a lover, laws without 
a legislator, and punishment without a sufferer, succession with- 
out time, and motion without any thing moved, or space in which 
it may move : or if, in these cases, ideas are the lover, the suf- 
ferer, the traitor, it were to be wished that the author of this 
discovery had further condescended to acquaint us, whether ideas 
can converse together, and be under obligations of duty or grati- 
tude to each other ; whether they can make promises and enter 
into leagues and covenants, and fulfil or break them, and be 
punished for the breach. If one set of ideas makes a covenant, 
another breaks it, and a third is punished for it, there is reason 
to think that justice is no natural virtue in this system. 

It seemed very natural to think, that the " Treatise of Human 
Nature " required an author, and a very ingenious one too ; but 
now we learn, that it is only a set of ideas which came together, 
and arranged themselves by certain associations and attractions. 

After all, this curious system appears not to be fitted to the 
present state of human nature. How far it may suit some choice 
spirits, who are refined from the dregs of common sense, I cannot 
say. It is acknowledged, I think, that even these can enter into 
this system only in their most speculative hours, when they soar 
so high in pursuit of those self- existent ideas, as to lose sight of 
all other things. But when they condescend to mingle again 
with the human race, and to converse with a friend, a compa- 
nion, or a fellow-citizen, the ideal system vanishes ; [common 
sense, like an irresistible torrent, carries them along ; and, in 
spite of all their reasoning and philosophy, they believe their 
own existence, and the existence of other things .] 

Indeed, it is happy they do so ; for if they should carry their 
closet-belief into the world, the rest of mankind would consider 
them as diseased, and send them to an infirmary. Therefore, 
as Plato required certain previous qualifications of those who 
entered his school, I think it would be prudent for the doctors 
of this ideal philosophy to do the same, and to refuse admittance 
to every man who is so weak as to imagine that he ought to have 
the same belief in solitude and in company, or that his principles 
ought to have any influence upon his practice : for this philo- 
sophy is like a hobby horse, which a man in bad health may 
ride in his closet without hurting his reputation ; but if he should 
take him abroad with him to church, or to the exchange, or to 



422 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 

the playhouse, his heir would immediately call a jury, and seize 
his estate. 

VII. The conception and belief of a sentient being or mind, 
is suggested by our constitution. The notion of relations not al- 
ways got by comparing the related ideas. — Leaving this philoso- 
phy, therefore, to those who have occasion for it, and can use it 
discreetly as a chamber-exercise, we may still inquire how the 
rest of mankind, and even the adepts themselves, except in some 
solitary moments, have got so strong and irresistible a belief, that 
thought must have a subject, and be the act of some thinking 
being : [how every man believes himself to be something distinct 
from his ideas and impressions ; something which continues the 
same identical self when all his ideas and impressions are changed.] 
It is impossible to trace the origin of this opinion in history : for 
all languages have it interwoven in their original construction. 
All nations have always believed it. The constitution of all laws 
and governments, as well as the common transactions of life, sup- 
pose it. 

It is no less impossible for any man to recollect when he himself 
came by this notion : for, as far back as we can remember, we 
were already in possession of it, and as fully persuaded of our 
own existence, and the existence of other things, as that one and 
one make two. It seems, therefore, that this opinion preceded 
all reasoning, and experience, and instruction ; and this is the 
more probable, because we could not get it by any of these 
means. It appears, then, to be an undeniable fact, that from 
thought or sensation, all mankind, constantly and invariably, 
from the first dawning of reflection, do infer a power or faculty of 
thinking, and a permanent being or mind to which that faculty 
belongs ; and that we as invariably ascribe all the various kinds 
of sensation and thought we are conscious of, to one individual 
mind or self. 

But by what rules of logic we make these inferences, it is im- 
possible to show ; nay, it is impossible to show how our sensa- 
tions and thoughts can give us the very notion and conception 
either of a mind or of a faculty. The faculty of smelling is 
something very different from the actual sensation of smelling ; 
for the faculty may remain when we have no sensation. And 
the mind is no less different from the faculty ; for it continues 
the same individual being when that faculty is lost. Yet this 
sensation suggests to us both a faculty and a mind ; and not only 
suggests the notion of them, but creates a belief of their exist- 
ence ; although it is impossible to discover, by reason, any tie 
or connexion between one and the other. 

What shall we say then ? Either those inferences which we 
draw from our sensations, namely, the existence of a mind, and 



OF SMELLING. /^QQ 

of powers or faculties belonging to it, are prejudices of philoso- 
phy or education, mere fictions of tile mind, which a wise man 
should throw oif as he does the belief of fairies ; or they are 
judgments of nature, judgments not got by comparing ideas, and 
perceiving agreements and disagreements, but immediately in- 
spired by our constitution. 

If this last is the case, as I apprehend it is, it will be impos- 
sible to shake off those opinions, and we must yield to them at 
last, though we struggle hard to get rid of them. And if we 
could, by a determined obstinacy, shake off the principles of 
our nature, this is not to act the philosopher, but the fool or 
the madman. It is incumbent upon those who think that these 
are not natural principles, to show, in the first place, how we 
can otherwise get the notion of a mind and its faculties ; and 
then to show how we come to deceive ourselves into the opinion 
that sensation cannot be without a sentient being. 

It is the received doctrine of philosophers, that our notions of 
relations can only be got by comparing the related ideas : but 
in the present case, there seems to be an instance to the contrary. 
It is not by having first the notions of mind and sensation, and 
then comparing them together, that we perceive the one to have 
the relation of a subject or substratum, and the other that of an 
act or operation : on the contrary, one of the related things, to 
wit, sensation, suggests to us both the correlate and the relation. 

I beg leave to make use of the word suggestion, because I 
know not one more proper, to express a power of the mind, 
which seems entirely to have escaped the notice of philosophers, 
and to which we owe many of our simple notions which are nei- 
ther impressions nor ideas, as well as many original principles 
of belief. I shall endeavour to illustrate, by an example, what 
I understand by this word. [We all know that a certain kind of 
sound suggests immediately to the mind a coach passing in the 
street ; and not only produces the imagination, but the belief, 
that a coach is passing. Yet there is here no comparing of ideas, 
no perception of agreements or disagreements, to produce this 
belief; nor is there the least similitude between the sound we 
hear, and the coach we imagine and believe to be passing.] 

It is true that this suggestion is not natural and original ; it is 
the result of experience and habit. But I think it appears from 
what hath been said, that there are natural suggestions ; parti- 
cularly, that sensation suggests the notion of present existence, 
and the belief that what we perceive or feel, does presently exist ; 
that memory suggests the notion of past existence, and the belief 
that what we remember did exist in time past ; and that our 
sensations and thoughts do also suggest the notion of a mind, 
and the belief of its existence, and relation to our thoughts. 



424 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 

By a like natural principle it is, that a beginning of existence, 
or any change in nature, suggests to us the notion of a cause, 
and compels our belief of its existence. And in like manner, as 
shall be shown when we come to the sense of touch, certain sen- 
sations of touch, by the constitution of our nature, suggest to us 
extension, solidity, and motion, which are nowise like to sensa- 
tions, although they have been hitherto confounded with them. 

VIII. There is a quality or virtue in bodies, which we call 
their smell. How this is connected in the imagination with the 
sensation. — We have considered smell as signifying a sensation, 
feeling, or impression upon the mind ; and in this sense, it can 
only be in a mind, or sentient being : but it is evident that man- 
kind give the name of smell much more frequently to something 
which they conceive to be external, and to be a quality of body : 
they understand something by it which does not at all infer a 
mind ; and have not the least difficulty in conceiving odoriferous 
plants spreading their fragrance in the deserts of Arabia, or in 
some uninhabited island where the human foot never trod. 
Every sensible day-labourer hath as clear a notion of this, and as 
full a conviction of the possibility of it, as he hath of his own 
existence ; and can no more doubt of the one than of the other. 

Suppose that such a man meets with a modern philosopher, 
and wants to be informed what smell in plants is. The philoso- 
pher tells him that there is no smell in plants, nor in any thing, 
but in the mind ; that it is impossible there can be smell but in a 
mind ; and that all this hath been demonstrated by modern philo- 
sophy. The plain man will, no doubt, be apt to think him merry : 
but if he finds that he is serious, his next conclusion will be 
that he is mad ; or that philosophy, like magic, puts men into 
a new world, and gives them different faculties from common 
men. And thus philosophy and common sense are set at vari- 
ance. But who is to blame for it ? In my opinion the philoso- 
pher is to blame. For if he means by smell, what the rest of 
mankind most commonly mean, he is certainly mad. But if he 
puts a different meaning upon the word, without observing it 
himself, or giving warning to others, he abuses language, and 
disgraces philosophy, without doing any service to truth : as if a 
man should exchange the meaning of the words daughter and 
cow, and then endeavour to prove to his plain neighbour, that his 
cow is his daughter, and his daughter his cow. 

I believe there is not much more wisdom in many of those 
paradoxes of the ideal philosophy, which to plain sensible men 
appear to be palpable absurdities, but with the adepts pass for 
profound discoveries. I resolve, for my own part, always to 
pay a great regard to the dictates of common sense, and not to 
depart from them without absolute necessity : and therefore I am 



OF SMELLING. 425 

apt to think that there is really something in the rose or lily, 
which is by the vulgar called smell, and which continues to 
exist when it is not smelled : and shall proceed to inquire what 
this is ; how we come by the notion of it ; and what relation this 
quality or virtue of smell hath to the sensation, which we have 
been obliged to call by the same name, for want of another. 

Let us therefore suppose, as before, a person beginning to 
exercise the sense of smelling : a little experience will discover 
to him that the nose is the organ of this sense, and that the air, 
or something in the air, is a medium of it. And finding, by 
further experience, that when a rose is near, he has a certain 
sensation ; when it is removed, the sensation is gone ; he finds 
a connexion in nature betwixt the rose and this sensation. The 
rose is considered as a cause, occasion, or antecedent, of the 
sensation ; the sensation as an effect or consequent of the pre- 
sence of the rose : they are associated in the mind, and con- 
stantly found conjoined in the imagination. 

But here it deserves our notice, that although the sensation 
may seem more closely related to the mind its subject, or to the 
nose its organ ; yet neither of these connexions operate so pow- 
erfully upon the imagination, as its connexion with the rose its 
concomitant. The reason of this seems to be, that its connexion 
with the mind is more general, and nowise distinguisheth it from 
other smells, or even from tastes, sounds, and other kinds of sen- 
sations. The relation it hath to the organ is likewise general, 
and doth not distinguish it from other smells : but [the con- 
nexion it hath with the rose is special and constant ; by which 
means they become almost inseparable in the imagination, in like 
manner as thunder and lightning, freezing and cold.] 

IX. That there is a principle in human nature, from which the 
notion of this, as well as all other natural virtues or causes, is 
derived, — In order to illustrate further how we come to conceive 
a quality or virtue in the rose which we call smell, and what this 
smell is, it is proper to observe, that the mind begins very early 
to thirst after principles, which may direct it in the exertion of 
its powers. The smell of a rose is a certain affection or feeling 
of the mind ; and as it is not constant, but comes and goes, we 
want to know when and where we may expect it, and are uneasy 
till we find something, which being present, brings this feeling 
along with it, and being removed, removes it. This, when found, 
we call the cause of it ; not in a strict and philosophical sense, 
as if the feeling were really effected or produced by that cause, 
but in a popular sense ; for the mind is satisfied, if there is a 
constant conjunction between them ; and such causes are in 
reality nothing else but laws of nature. Having found the smell 
thus constantly conjoined with the rose, the mind is at rest, 



426 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 

without inquiring whether this conjunction is owing to a real 
efficiency or not ; that being a philosophical inquiry, which does 
not concern human life. But every discovery of such a constant 
conjunction is of real importance in life, and makes a strong im- 
pression upon the mind. 

[So ardently do we desire to find every thing that happens 
within our observation, thus connected with something else, as 
its cause or occasion, that we are apt to fancy connexions upon 
the slightest grounds : and this weakness is most remarkable in 
the ignorant, who know least of the real connexions established 
in nature.] A man meets with an unlucky accident on a certain 
day of the year ; and knowing no other cause of his misfortune, 
he is apt to conceive something unlucky in that day of the calen- 
dar : and if he find the same connexion hold a second time, is 
strongly confirmed in his superstition. I remember, many years 
ago, a white ox was brought into the country, of so enormous a 
size that people came many miles to see him. There happened, 
some months after, an uncommon fatality among women in child- 
bearing. Two such uncommon events following one another, 
gave a suspicion of their connexion, and occasioned a common 
opinion among the country-people, that the white ox was the 
cause of this fatality. 

However silly and ridiculous this opinion was, it sprung from 
the same root in human nature, on which all natural philosophy 
grows ; namely, an eager desire to find out connexions in things, 
and a natural, original, and unaccountable propensity to believe, 
that the connexions which we have observed in time past, will 
continue in time to come. Omens, portents, good and bad luck, 
palmistry, astrology, all the numerous arts of divination, and of 
interpreting dreams, false hypotheses and systems, and true prin- 
ciples in the philosophy of nature, are all built upon the same 
foundation in the human constitution; and are distinguished only 
according as we conclude rashly from too few instances, or cau- 
tiously from a sufficient induction. 

As it is experience only that discovers these connexions between 
natural causes and their effects, without inquiring further, we 
attribute to the cause some vague and indistinct notion of power 
or virtue to produce the effect. And in many cases, the pur- 
poses of life do not make it necessary to give distinct names to 
the cause and the effect. Whence it happens, that being closely 
connected in the imagination, although very unlike to each other, 
one name serves for both ; and, in common discourse, is most 
frequently applied to that which, of the two, is most the object 
of our attention. This occasions an ambiguity in many words, 
which is common to all languages, having the same causes, and 
which is apt to be overlooked even by philosophers. Some in- 



OF SMELLING. ^g^ 

stances will serve both to illustrate and confirm what we have 
said. 

Magnetism signifies both the tendency of the iron towards the 
magnet, and the power of the magnet to produce that tendency : 
and if it was asked, whether it is a quality of the iron or of the 
magnet, one would perhaps be puzzled at first, [but a little 
attention would discover, that we conceive a power or virtue in 
the magnet as the cause, and a motion in the iron as the effect ;] 
and although these are things quite unlike, they are so united in 
the imagination, that we give the common name of magnetism to 
both. The same thing may be said of gravitation, which some- 
times signifies the tendency of bodies towards the earth, some- 
times the attractive power of the earth, which we conceive as the 
cause of that tendency. We may observe the same ambiguity 
in some of Sir Isaac Newton's definitions ; and that even in 
words of his own making. In three of his definitions, he ex- 
plains very distinctly what he understands by the absolute quan- 
tity, what by the accelerative quantity, and what by the motive 
quantity, of a centripetal force. In the first of these three de- 
finitions, centripetal force is put for the cause, which we conceive 
to be some power or virtue in the centre or central body : in the 
two last, the same word is put for the effect of this cause, in 
producing velocity, or in producing motion towards that centre. 

[Heat signifies a sensation, and cold a contrary one. But heat 
likewise signifies a quality or state of bodies, which hath no con- 
trary, but different degrees.] When a man feels the same water 
hot to one hand and cold to the other, this gives him occasion to 
distinguish between the feeling and the heat of the body ; and 
although he knows that the sensations are contrary, he does not 
imagine that the body can have contrary qualities at the same 
time.* And when he finds a different taste in the same body in 
sickness and in health, he is easily convinced, that the quality in 
the body called taste is the same as before, although the sensa- 
tions he has from it are perhaps opposite. 

The vulgar are commonly charged by philosophers with the 
absurdity of imagining the smell in the rose to be something like 
to the sensation of smelling : but I think, unjustly ; for they 
neither give the same epithets to both, nor do they reason in the 
same manner from them. [What is smell in the rose ? It is a 
quality or virtue of the rose, or of something proceeding from 
it, which we perceive by the sense of smelling ; and this is all we 
know of the matter.] [But what is smelling ? It is an act of 
the mind, but is never imagined to be a quality of the mind.] 
Again, the sensation of smelling is conceived to infer necessarily 
a mind or sentient being ; but smell in the rose infers no such 

* Vide Locke's Essay, Book II. chap. viii. sect. 21. 



428 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. II. 

thing. We say, This body smells sweet, that stinks ; but we do 
not say, This mind smells sweet, and that stinks. Therefore, 
smell in the rose, and the sensation which it causes, are not con- 
ceived, even by the vulgar, to be things of the same kind, although 
they have the same name. 

[From what hath been said, we may learn, that the smell of a 
rose signifies two things. First, a sensation, which can have no 
existence but when it is perceived, and can only be in a sentient 
being or mind. Secondly, it signifies some power, quality, or 
virtue in the rose, or in effluvia proceeding from it, which hath 
a permanent existence, independent of the mind, and which, by 
the constitution of nature, produces the sensation in us.] By 
the original constitution of our nature, we are both led to be- 
lieve, that there is a permanent cause of the sensation, and 
prompted to seek after it ; and experience determines us to place 
it in the rose. The names of all smells, tastes, sounds, as well 
as heat and cold, have a like ambiguity in all languages : but it 
deserves our attention, that these names are but rarely, in com- 
mon language, used to signify the sensations ; for the most part, 
they signify the external qualities which are indicated by the 
sensations. The cause of which phenomenon I take to be this. 
Our sensations have very different degrees of strength. Some 
of them are so quick and lively, as to give us a great deal either 
of pleasure or of uneasiness. When this is the case, we are 
compelled to attend to the sensation itself, and to make it an 
object of thought and discourse; we give it a name, which sig- 
nifies nothing but the sensation ; and in this case we immediately 
and readily acknowledge, that the thing meant by that name is 
in the mind only, and not in any thing external. Such are the 
various kinds of pain, sickness, and the sensations of hunger and 
other appetites. But where the sensation is not so interesting 
as to require to be made an object of thought, our constitution 
leads us to consider it as a sign of something external, which 
hath a constant conjunction with it; and having found what it 
indicates, we give a name to that: the sensation, having no 
proper name, falls in as an accessory to the thing signified by it, 
and is confounded under the same name. So that the name 
may indeed be applied to the sensation, but most properly and 
commonly is applied to the thing indicated by that sensation. 
The sensations of smell, taste, sound, and colour, are of infi- 
nitely more importance as signs or indications, than they are 
upon their own account ; like the words of a language, wherein 
we do not attend to the sound, but to the sense. 

X. Whether in sensations the mind is active or passive. — There 
is one inquiry remains — Whether in smelling, and in other sen- 
sations, the mind is active or passive ? This possibly may seem 
to be a question about words, or at least of very small import- 



OF SMELLING. 4gC) 

ance ; however, if it leads us to attend more accurately to the 
operations of our minds, than we are accustomed to do, it is 
upon that very account not altogether unprofitable. I think the 
opinion of modern philosophers is, that in sensation the mind is 
altogether passive. And this undoubtedly is so far true, that 
we cannot raise any sensation in our minds by willing it ; and, 
on the other hand, it seems hardly possible to avoid having the 
sensation when the object is presented. Yet it seems likewise 
to be true, that in proportion as the attention is more or less 
turned to a sensation, or diverted from it, that sensation is more 
or less perceived and remembered. Every one knows, that very 
intense pain may be diverted by surprise, or by any thing that 
entirely occupies the mind. When we are engaged in earnest 
conversation, the clock may strike by us without being heard ; at 
least we remember not the next moment that we did hear it. 
The noise and tumult of a great trading city is not heard by 
them who have lived in it all their days; but it stuns those 
strangers who have lived in the peaceful retirement of the country. 
[Whether, therefore, there can be any sensation where the mind 
is purely passive, I will not say ; but I think we are conscious of 
having given some attention to every sensation which we remem- 
ber, though ever so recent.] 

No doubt, where the impulse is strong and uncommon, it is as 
difficult to withhold attention, as it is to forbear crying out in 
racking pain, or starting in a sudden fright : but how far both 
might be attained by strong resolution and practice, is not easy 
to determine. So that, although the Peripatetics had no good 
reason to suppose an active and a passive intellect, since atten- 
tion may be well enough accounted an act of the will ; yet I 
think they came nearer to the truth, in holding the mind to be 
in sensation partly passive and partly active, than the moderns, 
in affirming it to be purely passive. Sensation, imagination, 
memory, and judgment, have, by the vulgar, in all ages, been 
considered as acts of the mind. The manner in which they are 
expressed in all languages, shows this. When the mind is much 
employed in them, we say it is very active ; whereas, if they were 
impressions only, as the ideal philosophy would lead us to con- 
ceive, we ought in such a case rather to say, that the mind is 
very passive ; for I suppose no man would attribute great acti- 
vity to the paper I write upon, because it receives variety of 
characters. 

The relation which the sensation of smell bears to the memory 
and imagination of it, and to a mind or subject, is common to all 
our sensations, and indeed to all the operations of the mind : the 
relation it bears to the will, is common to it with all the powers 
of understanding : and the relation it bears to that quality or 
virtue of bodies which it indicates, is common to it with the 



430 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. III. 

sensations of taste, hearing, colour, heat, and cold : so that what 
hath been said of this sense, may easily be applied to several of 
our senses, and to other operations of the mind ; and this, I 
hope, will apologize for our insisting so long upon it. 



CHAPTER III. 



OF TASTING. 



I. A great part of what hath been said of the sense of smelling 
is so easily applied to those of tasting and hearing, that we shall 
leave the application entirely to the reader's judgment, and save 
ourselves the trouble of a tedious repetition. 

It is probable that every thing that affects the taste, is in some 
degree soluble in the saliva. It is not conceivable how any 
thing should enter readily and of its own accord, as it were, into 
the pores of the tongue, palate, and fauces, unless it had some 
chemical affinity to that liquor with which these pores are always 
replete. It is therefore an admirable contrivance of nature, that 
the organs of taste should always be moist with a liquor which is 
so universal a menstruum, and which deserves to be examined 
more than it hath been hitherto, both in that capacity, and as a 
medical unguent. Nature teaches dogs and other animals to use 
it in this last way ; and its subserviency both to taste and diges- 
tion shows its efficacy in the former. 

It is with manifest design and propriety, that the organ of 
this sense guards the entrance of the alimentary canal, as that 
of smell, the entrance of the canal for respiration. And from 
these organs being placed in such manner, that every thing 
that enters into the stomach must undergo the scrutiny of both 
senses, it is plain that they were intended by nature to distin- 
guish wholesome food from that which is noxious. The brutes 
have no other means of choosing their food ; nor would mankind 
in the savage state. And it is very probable that the smell and 
taste, nowise vitiated by luxury or bad habits, would rarely, 
if ever, lead us to a wrong choice of food among the productions 
of nature ; although the artificial compositions of a refined and 
luxurious cookery, or of chemistry and pharmacy, may often 
impose upon both, and produce things agreeable to the taste and 
smell, which are noxious to health. And it is probable, that 
both smell and taste are vitiated, and rendered less fit to per- 
form their natural offices, by the unnatural kind of life men 
commonly lead in society. 

These senses are likewise of great use to distinguish bodies 
that cannot be distinguished by our other senses, and to discern 
the changes which the same body undergoes, which in many 



OF TASTING. 43 J 

cases are sooner perceived by taste and smell than by any other 
means. How many things are there in the market, the eating- 
house, and the tavern, as well as in the apothecary and che- 
mist's shops, which are known to be what they are given out to 
be, and are perceived to be good or bad in their kind, only by 
taste or smell ! And how far our judgment of things, by means 
of our senses, might be improved by accurate attention to the 
small differences of taste and smell, and other sensible qualities, 
is not easy to determine. Sir Isaac Newton, by a noble effort 
of his great genius, attempted, from the colour of opaque bodies, 
to discover the magnitude of the minute pellucid parts of which 
they are compounded : and who knows what new lights natural 
philosophy may yet receive from other secondary qualities duly 
examined ? 

Some tastes and smells stimulate the nerves and raise the 
spirits : but such an artificial elevation of the spirits is, by the 
laws of nature, followed by a depression, which can only be 
relieved by time, or by the repeated use of the like stimulus. 
[By the use of such things we create an appetite for them, which 
very much resembles, and hath all the force of a natural one. 
It is in this manner that men acquire an appetite for snuff, 
tobacco, strong liquors, laudanum, and the like.] 

Nature indeed seems studiously to have set bounds to the 
pleasures and pains we have by these two senses, and to have 
confined them within very narrow limits, that we might not place 
any part of our happiness in them ; there being hardly any smell 
or taste so disagreeable that use will not make it tolerable, and 
at last perhaps agreeable ; nor any so agreeable as not to lose its 
relish by constant use. Neither is there any pleasure or pain 
of these senses which is not introduced, or followed, by some 
degree of its contrary, which nearly balances it. [So that we 
may here apply the beautiful allegory of the divine Socrates ; 
B^° That although pleasure and pain are contrary in their nature, 
and their faces look different ways, yet Jupiter hath tied them 
so together, that he that lays hold of the one, draws the other 
along with it.] 

II. As there is a great variety of smells, seemingly simple and 
uncompounded, not only altogether unlike, but some of them 
contrary to others ; and as the same thing may be said of tastes ; 
it would seem that one taste is not less different from another 
than it is from a smell : and therefore it may be a question, How 
all smells come to be considered as one genus, and all tastes as 
another? What is the generical distinction? Is it only that 
the nose is the organ of the one, and the palate of the other ? or, 
abstracting from the organ, is there not in the sensations them- 
selves something common to smells, and something else common 
to tastes, whereby the one is distinguished from the other ? It 



432 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. III. 

seems most probable that the latter is the case ; and that, under 
the appearance of the greatest simplicity, there is still in these 
sensations something of composition. 

If one considers the matter abstractedly, it would seem that a 
number of sensations, or indeed of any other individual things, 
which are perfectly simple and uncompounded, are incapable of 
being reduced into genera and species ; because individuals which 
belong to a species, must have something peculiar to each, by 
which they are distinguished, and something common to the whole 
species. And the same may be said of species which belong to 
one genus. And whether this does not imply some kind of com- 
position, we shall leave to metaphysicians to determine. 

The sensations both of smell and taste do undoubtedly admit 
of an immense variety of modifications, which no language can 
express. If a man was to examine five hundred different wines, 
he would hardly find two of them that had precisely the same 
taste : the same thing holds in cheese, and in many other things. 
Yet of five hundred different tastes in cheese or wine, we can 
hardly describe twenty, so as to give a distinct notion of them to 
one who had not tasted them. 

Dr. Nehemiah Grew, a most judicious and laborious natural- 
ist, in a discourse read before the Royal Society, anno 1675, hath 
endeavoured to show that there are at least sixteen different sim- 
ple tastes, which he enumerates. How many compounded ones 
may be made out of all the various combinations of two, three, 
four, or more of these simple ones, they who are acquainted with 
the theory of combinations will easily perceive. All these have 
various degrees of intenseness and weakness. Many of them 
have other varieties : in some the taste is more quickly perceived 
upon the application of the sapid body, in others more slowly ; 
in some the sensation is more permanent, in others more tran- 
sient ; in some it seems to undulate or return after certain inter- 
vals, in others it is constant: the various parts of the organ, as 
the lips, the tip of the tongue, the root of the tongue, the fauces, 
the uvula, and the throat, are some of them chiefly affected by 
one sapid body, and others by another. All these, and other 
varieties of tastes, that accurate writer illustrates by a number 
of examples. Nor is it to be doubted, but smells, if examined 
with the same accuracy, would appear to have as great variety. 



433 



CHAPTER IV. 



OF HEARING. 



I. Variety of sounds. Their place and distance learned by 
custom, ivithout reasoning. — Sounds have probably no less 
variety of modifications, than either tastes or odours. For, first, 
sounds differ in tone. The ear is capable of perceiving four or 
five hundred variations of tone in sound, and probably as many 
different degrees of strength ; by combining these, we have 
above twenty thousand simple sounds that differ either in tone or 
strength, supposing every tone to be perfect. But it is to be 
observed, that to make a perfect tone, a great many undulations 
of elastic air are required, which must all be of equal duration 
and extent, and follow one another with perfect regularity ; and 
each undulation must be made up of the advance and recoil of 
innumerable particles of elastic air, whose motions are all uniform 
in direction, force, and time. Hence we may easily conceive a 
prodigious variety in the same tone, arising from irregularities of 
it, occasioned by the constitution, figure, situation, or manner of 
striking the sonorous body ; from the constitution of the elastic 
medium, or its being disturbed by other motions ; and from the 
constitution of the ear itself upon which the impression is made. 

A flute, a violin, a hautboy, and a French horn, may all sound 
the same tone, and be easily distinguishable. Nay, if twenty 
human voices sound the same note, and with equal strength, 
there will still be some difference. The same voice, while it 
retains its proper distinctions, may yet be varied many ways, by 
sickness or health, youth or age, leanness or fatness, good or bad 
humour. The same words spoken by foreigners and natives, nay, 
by persons of different provinces of the same nation, may be dis- 
tinguished. Such an immense variety of sensations of smell, 
taste, and sound, surely was not given us in vain. They are 
signs, by which we know and distinguish things without us ; and 
it was fit that the variety of the signs should in some degree cor- 
respond with the variety of the things signified by them. 

[It seems to be by custom, that we learn to distinguish both 
the place of things, and their nature, by means of their sound.] 
That such a noise is in the street, such another in the room 
above me ; that this is a knock at my door ; that, a person walking 
up stairs ; is probably learnt by experience. I remember, that 
once lying a-bed, and having been put into a fright, I heard my 
own heart beat ; but I took it to be one knocking at the door, 
and arose and opened the door oftener than once, before I dis- 
covered that the sound was in my own breast. It is probable, 
that previous to all experience, we should as little know whether 

2 F 



434 0F TIIE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. IV. 

a sound came from the right or left, from above or below, from 
a great or a small distance, as we should know whether it was the 
sound of a drum, or a bell, or a cart. Nature is frugal in her 
operations, and will not be at the expense of a particular instinct, 
to give us that knowledge which experience will soon produce, 
by means of a general principle of human nature. 

[For a little experience, by the constitution of human nature, 
ties together, not only in our imagination, but in our belief, those 
things which were in their nature unconnected.] When I hear 
a certain sound, immediately, without reasoning, I conclude that 
a coach passes by. There are no premises from which this con- 
clusion is inferred by any rules of logic. It is the effect of a 
principle of our nature, common to us with the brutes. 

Although it is by hearing that we are capable of the percep- 
tions of harmony and melody, and of all the charms of music ; 
yet it would seem that these require a higher faculty, which we 
call a musical ear. This seems to be in very different degrees, 
in those who have the bare faculty of hearing equally perfect ; 
and therefore ought not to be classed with the external senses, 
but in a higher order. 

II. Of natural language. — One of the noblest purposes of 
sound undoubtedly is language ; without which mankind would 
hardly be able to attain any degree of improvement above the 
brutes. Language is commonly considered as purely an inven- 
tion of men, who by nature are no less mute than the brutes, but 
having a superior degree of invention and reason, have been 
able to contrive artificial signs of their thoughts and purposes, 
and to establish them by common consent. But the origin of 
language deserves to be more carefully inquired into, not only as 
this inquiry may be of importance for the improvement of lan- 
guage, but as it is related to the present subject, and tends to 
lay open some of the first principles of human nature. I shall 
therefore offer some thoughts upon this subject. 

[By language I understand all those signs which mankind use 
in order to communicate to others their thoughts and intentions, 
their purposes and desires.] And such signs may be conceived 
to be of two kinds : first, such as have no meaning but what is 
affixed to them by compact or agreement among those who use 
them ; these are artificial signs : secondly, such as, previous to 
all compact or agreement, have a meaning which every man 
understands by the principles of his nature. Language, so far 
as it consists of artificial signs, may be called artificial ; so far as 
it consists of natural signs, I call it natural. 

Having premised these definitions, I think it is demonstrable, 
that if mankind had not a natural language, they could never 
have invented an artificial one by their reason and ingenuity. 
For all artificial language supposes some compact or agreement 



OF HEARING. 435 

to affix a certain meaning to certain signs ; therefore there must 
be compacts or agreements before the use of artificial signs : but 
there can be no compact or agreement without signs, nor without 
language ; and therefore there must be a natural language before 
any artificial language can be invented: which was to be demon- 
strated. 

Had language in general been a human invention, as much as 
writing or printing, we should find whole nations as mute as 
the brutes. Indeed even the brutes have some natural signs by 
which they express their own thoughts, and affections, and 
desires, and understand those of others. A chick, as soon as 
hatched, understands the different sounds whereby its dam calls 
it to food, or gives the alarm of danger. A dog or a horse 
understands, by nature, when the human voice caresses, and 
when it threatens him. But brutes, as far as we know, have no 
notion of contracts or covenants, or of moral obligation to per- 
form them. If nature had given them these notions, she would 
probably have given them natural signs to express them. And 
where nature has denied these notions, it is as impossible to 
acquire them by art, as it is for a blind man to acquire the notion 
of colours. Some brutes are sensible of honour or disgrace ; 
they have resentment and gratitude : but none of them, as far 
as we know, can- make a promise, or plight their faith, having no 
such notions from their constitution. And if mankind had not 
these notions by nature, and natural signs to express them by, 
with all their wit and ingenuity they could never have invented 
language. 

The elements of this natural language of mankind, or the 
signs that are naturally expressive of our thoughts, may, I think, 
be reduced to these three kinds : modulations of the voice, ges- 
tures, and features. By means of these, two savages who have 
no common artificial language, can converse together ; can com- 
municate their thoughts in some tolerable manner ; can ask and 
refuse, affirm and deny, threaten and supplicate ; can traffic, 
enter into covenants, and plight their faith. This might be 
confirmed by historical facts of undoubted credit, if it were 
necessary. 

Mankind having thus a common language by nature, though a 
scanty one, adapted only to the necessities of nature, there is no 
great ingenuity required in improving it by the addition of arti- 
ficial signs, to supply the deficiency of the natural. These 
artificial signs must multiply with the arts of life, and the im- 
provements of knowledge. The articulations of the voice seem 
to be, of all signs, the most proper for artificial language ; and 
as mankind have universally used them for that purpose, we may 
reasonably judge that nature intended them for it. But nature 
probably does not intend that we should lay aside the use of the 

2 F 2 



436 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. IV. 

natural signs ; it is enough that we supply their defects by artifi- 
cial ones. A man that rides always in a chariot, by degrees loses 
the use of his legs ; and one who uses artificial signs only, loses 
both the knowledge and use of the natural. Dumb people re- 
tain much more of the natural language than others, because 
necessity obliges them to use it. And for the same reason, 
savages have much more of it than civilized nations. It is by 
natural signs chiefly that we give force and energy to language ; 
and the less language has of them, it is the less expressive and 
persuasive. Thus writing is less expressive than reading, and 
reading less expressive than speaking without book; speaking 
without the proper and natural modulations, force, and variations 
of the voice, is a frigid and dead language, compared with that 
which is attended with them ; it is still more expressive when we 
add the language of the eyes and features ; and is then only in 
its perfect and natural state, and attended with its proper energy, 
when to all these we superadd the force of action. 

Where speech is natural, it will be an exercise, not of the 
voice and lungs only, but of all the muscles of the body ; like 
that of dumb people and savages, whose language, as it has 
more of nature, is more expressive, and is more easily learned. 

Is it not pity that the refinements of a civilized life, instead 
of supplying the defects of natural language, should root it out, 
and plant in its stead dull and lifeless articulations of unmeaning 
sounds, or the scrawling of insignificant characters ? The per- 
fection of language is commonly thought to be, to express human 
thoughts and sentiments distinctly by these dull signs; but if 
this is the perfection of artificial language, it is surely the cor- 
ruption of the natural. 

Artificial signs signify, but they do not express ; they speak 
to the understanding, as algebraical characters may do, but the 
passions, the affections, and the will, hear them not : these con- 
tinue dormant and inactive, till we speak to them in the lan- 
guage of nature, to which they are all attention and obedience. 

It were easy to show, that the fine arts of the musician, the 
painter, the actor, and the orator, so far as they are expressive — 
although the knowledge of them requires in us a delicate taste, 
a nice judgment, and much study and practice — yet they are 
nothing else but the language of nature, which we brought into 
the world with us, but have unlearned by disuse, and so find the 
greatest difficulty in recovering it. 

Abolish the use of articulate sounds and writing among man- 
kind for a century, and every man would be a painter, an actor, 
and an orator. We mean not to affirm that such an expedient 
is practicable ; or if it were, that the advantage would counter- 
balance the loss ; but that, as men are led by nature and neces- 
sity to converse together, they will use every mean in their power 



of touch. 437 

to make themselves understood ; and where they cannot do this 
by artificial signs, they will do it as far as possible by natural 
ones : and he that understands perfectly the use of natural signs, 
must be the best judge in all the expressive arts. 



CHAPTEK V. 



OF TOUCH. 



I. Of heat and cold. — The senses which we have hitherto con- 
sidered, are very simple and uniform, each of them exhibiting 
only one kind of sensation, and thereby indicating only one qua- 
lity of bodies. By the ear we perceive sounds, and nothing else ; 
by the palate, tastes ; and by the nose, odours : these qualities 
are all likewise of one order, being all secondary qualities : 
whereas by touch we perceive not one quality only, but many, 
and those of very different kinds. The chief of them are heat 
and cold, hardness and softness, roughness and smoothness, 
figure, solidity, motion, and extension. We shall consider these 
in order. 

As to heat and cold, it will easily be allowed that they are 
secondary qualities, of the same order with smell, taste, and 
sound. And, therefore, what hath been already said of smell, is 
easily applicable to them ; that is, that the words heat and cold 
have each of them two significations ; they sometimes signify 
certain sensations of the mind, which can have no existence 
when they are n#t felt, nor can exist anywhere but in a mind or 
sentient being ; but more frequently they signify a quality in 
bodies, which, by the laws of nature, occasions the sensations of 
heat and cold in us : a quality which, though connected by cus- 
tom so closely with the sensations, that we cannot without diffi- 
culty separate them ; yet hath not the least resemblance to it, 
and may continue to exist when there is no sensation at all. 

The sensations of heat and cold are perfectly known ; for they 
neither are, nor can be, anything else than what we feel them to 
be ; but the qualities in bodies which we call heat and cold, are 
unknown. They are only conceived by us, as unknown causes 
or occasions of the sensations to which we give the same names. 
But though common sense says nothing of the nature of these 
qualities, it plainly dictates the existence of them ; and to deny 
that there can be heat and cold when they are not felt, is an 
absurdity too gross to merit confutation, ggr For what could be 
more absurd, than to say, that the thermometer cannot rise or 
fall unless some person be present, or that the coast of Guinea 
would be as cold as Nova Zembla, if it had no inhabitants ? 



438 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

It is the business of philosophers to investigate, by proper 
experiments, and induction, what heat and cold are in bodies. 
And whether they make heat a particular element diffused through 
nature, and accumulated in the heated body, or whether they 
make it a certain vibration of the parts of the heated body; whe- 
ther they determine that heat and cold are contrary qualities, as 
the sensations undoubtedly are contrary, or that heat only is a 
quality, and cold its privation ; these questions are within the 
province of philosophy ; for common sense says nothing on the 
one side or the other. 

But whatever be the nature of that quality in bodies which 
we call heat, we certainly know this, that it cannot in the least 
resemble the sensation of heat. It is no less absurd to suppose 
a likeness between the sensation and the quality, than it would 
be to suppose, that the pain of the gout resembles a square or a 
triangle. The simplest man that hath common sense, does not 
imagine the sensation of heat, or any thing that resembles that 
sensation, to be in the fire. He only imagines, that there is 
something in the fire, which makes him and other sentient beings 
feel heat. Yet as the name of heat, in common language, more 
frequently and more properly signifies this unknown something 
in the fire, than the sensation occasioned by it, he justly laughs 
at the philosopher who denies that there is any heat in the fire, 
and thinks that he speaks contrary to common sense. 

II. Of hardness and softness. — Let us next consider hardness 
and softness ; by which words we always understand real proper- 
ties or qualities of bodies, of which we have a distinct conception. 

When the parts of a body adhere so firmly, that it cannot 
easily be made to change its figure, we call & hard ; when its 
parts are easily displaced, we call it soft. This is the notion 
which all mankind have of hardness and softness : they are nei- 
ther sensations, nor like any sensation ; they were real qualities 
before they were perceived by touch, and continue to be so when 
they are not perceived : for if any man will affirm that diamonds 
were not hard till they were handled, who would reason with 
him? 

There is, no doubt, a sensation by which we perceive a body 
to be hard or soft. This sensation of hardness may easily be 
had, by pressing one's hand against the table, and attending to 
the feeling that ensues, setting aside, as much as possible, all 
thought of the table and its qualities, or of any external thing. 
[But it is one thing to have the sensation, and another to attend 
to it, and make it a distinct object of reflection. The first is very 
easy ; the last, in most cases, extremely difficult.] 

We are so accustomed to use the sensation as a sign, and to 
pass immediately to the hardness signified, that, as far as appears, 
it was never made an object of thought, either by the vulgar or 



of touch. 439 

philosophers ; nor lias it a name in any language. There is no 
sensation more distinct, or more frequent ; yet it is never attended 
to, but passes through the mind instantaneously, and serves only 
to introduce that quality in bodies which, by a law of our con- 
stitution, it suggests. 

There are indeed some cases wherein it is no difficult matter 
to attend to the sensation occasioned by the hardness of a body ; 
for instance, when it is so violent as to occasion considerable 
pain: then nature calls upon us to attend to it, and then we 
acknowledge that it is a mere sensation, and can only be in a 
sentient being. If a man runs his head with violence against a 
pillar, I appeal to him, whether the pain he feels resembles the 
hardness of the stone ; or if he can conceive any thing like what 
he feels to be in an inanimate piece of matter. 

The attention of the mind is here entirely turned towards the 
painful feeling ; and, to speak in the common language of man- 
kind, he feels nothing in the stone, but feels a violent pain in his 
head. It is quite otherwise when he leans his head gently 
against the pillar ; for then he will tell you that he feels nothing 
in his head, but feels hardness in the stone. Hath he not a sen- 
sation in this case as well as in the other ? Undoubtedly he 
hath : but it is a sensation which nature intended only as a sign 
of something in the stone ; and, accordingly, he instantly fixes 
his attention upon the thing signified ; and cannot, without great 
difficulty, attend so much to the sensation as to be persuaded 
that there is any such thing, distinct from the hardness it 
signifies. 

But however difficult it may be to attend to this fugitive sen- 
sation, to stop its rapid progress, and to disjoin it from the 
external quality of hardness, in whose shadow it is apt immedi- 
ately to hide itself; this is what a philosopher by pains and prac- 
tice must attain, otherwise it will be impossible for him to reason 
justly upon this subject, or even to understand what is here 
advanced. For the last appeal, in subjects of this nature, must 
be to what a man feels and perceives in his own mind. 

It is indeed strange, that a sensation which we have every 
time that we feel a body hard, and which, consequently, we can 
command as often, and continue as long as we please, a sensation 
as distinct and determinate as any other, should yet be so much 
unknown, as never to have been made an object of thought and 
reflection, nor to have been honoured with a name in any lan- 
guage ; that philosophers, as well as the vulgar, should have 
entirely overlooked it, or confounded it with that quality of 
bodies w r hich we call hardness, to which it hath not the least 
similitude. May we not hence conclude, that the knowledge 
of the human faculties is but in its infancy ? That we have not 
yet learned to attend to those operations of the mind of which 



440 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

we are conscious every hour of our lives ? That there are habits 
of inattention acquired very early, which are as hard to be over- 
come as other habits ? For I think it is probable, that the 
novelty of this sensation will procure some attention to it in chil- 
dren at first ; but being nowise interesting in itself, as soon as it 
becomes familiar, it is overlooked, and the attention turned solely 
to that which it signifies. Thus, when one is learning a language, 
he attends to the sounds ; but when he is master of it, he attends 
only to the sense of what he would express. If this is the case, 
we must become as little children again, if we will be philoso- 
phers : we must overcome this habit of inattention which has 
been gathering strength ever since we began to think ; a habit, 
the usefulness of which, in common life, atones for the difficulty 
it creates to the philosopher in discovering the first principles of 
the human mind. 

The firm cohesion of the parts of a body, is no more like that 
sensation by which I perceive it to be hard, than the vibration of 
a sonorous body is like the sound I hear : nor can I possibly 
perceive, by my reason, any connexion between the one and the 
other. No man can give a reason, why the vibration of a body 
might not have given the sensation of smelling, and the effluvia 
of bodies affected our hearing, if it had so pleased our Maker. 
In like manner, no man can give a reason why the sensations 
of smell, or taste, or sound, might not have indicated hard- 
ness, as well as that sensation which, by our constitution, does 
indicate it. [Indeed (1) no man can conceive any sensation to 
resemble any known quality of bodies. Nor (2) can any man 
show, by any good argument, that all our sensations might not 
have been as they are, though no body, nor quality of body, had 
ever existed.] 

Here then is a phenomenon of human nature, which comes 
to be resolved. Hardness of bodies is a thing that we conceive 
as distinctly, and believe as firmly, as anything in nature. We 
have no way of coming at this conception and belief, but by 
means of a certain sensation of touch, to which hardness hath not 
the least similitude \ nor can we, by any rules of reasoning, infer 
the one from the other. The question is, how we come by this 
(1) conception and (2) belief? 

First, as to the conception : shall we call it an idea of sensa- 
tion, or of reflection ? The last will not be affirmed ; and as 
little can the first, unless we will call that an idea of sensation 
which hath no resemblance to any sensation. So that the origin 
of this idea of hardness, one of the most common and most dis- 
tinct we have, is not to be found in all our systems of the mind : 
not even in those which have so copiously endeavoured to deduce 
all our notions from sensation and reflection. 

But, secondly, supposing we have got the conception of hard- 



OF TOUCH. 441 

ness, how come we by the belief of it ? Is it self-evident, from 
comparing the ideas, that such a sensation could not be felt, 
unless such a quality of bodies existed ? No. Can it be proved 
by probable or certain arguments ? No, it cannot. Have we 
got this belief then by tradition, by education, or by experience ? 
No, it is not got in any of these ways. Shall we then throw off 
this belief, as having no foundation in reason ? Alas ! it is not 
in our power ; it triumphs over reason, and laughs at all the 
arguments of a philosopher. Even the author of the " Treatise 
of Human Nature," though he saw no reason for this belief, but 
many against it, could hardly conquer it in his speculative and 
solitary moments ; at other times he fairly yielded to it, and 
confesses that he found himself under a necessity to do so. 

[What shall we say then of this conception, and this belief, 
which are so unaccountable and untractable ? I see nothing left, 
but to conclude, that, by an original principle of our constitu- 
tion, a certain sensation of touch both suggests to the mind the 
conception of hardness, and creates the belief of it : or, in other 
words, that this sensation is a natural sign of hardness.] And 
this I shall endeavour more fully to explain. 

III. Of natural signs. — As in artificial signs there is often 
neither similitude between the sign and thing signified, nor any 
connexion that arises necessarily from the nature of the things ; 
so it is also in natural signs. The word gold has no similitude 
to the substance signified by it ; nor is it in its own nature more 
fit to signify this than any other substance : yet, by habit and 
custom, it suggests this and no other. In like manner, a sensa- 
tion of touch suggests hardness, although it hath neither simili- 
tude to hardness, nor, as far as we can perceive, any necessary 
connexion with it. The difference betwixt these two signs lies 
only in this, that, in the first, the suggestion is the effect of habit 
and custom ; in the second, it is not the effect of habit, but of 
the original constitution of our minds. 

It appears evident from what hath been said on the subject of 
language, that there are natural signs, as well as artificial ; and 
particularly, that the thoughts, purposes, and dispositions of the 
mind, have their natural signs in the features of the face, the 
modulation of the voice, and the motion and attitude of the body : 
that without a natural knowledge of the connexion between these 
signs, and the things signified by them, language could never 
have been invented, and established among men: and that the 
fine arts are all founded upon this connexion, which we may call 
the natural language of mankind. It is now proper to observe, 
that there are different orders of natural signs, and to point out 
the different classes into which they may be distinguished, that 
we may more distinctly conceive the relation between our sensa- 



442 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

tions and the things they suggest, and what we mean by calling 
sensations signs of external things. 

[The first class of natural signs comprehends those whose con- 
nexion with the thing signified is established by nature, but dis- 
covered only by experience.] The whole of genuine philosophy 
consists in discovering such connexions, and reducing them to 
general rules. The great Lord Verulam had a perfect compre- 
hension of this, when he called it an interpretation of nature. 
No man ever more distinctly understood or happily expressed 
the nature and foundation of the philosophic art. What is all 
we know of mechanics, astronomy, and optics, but connexions 
established by nature, and discovered by experience or observa- 
tion, and consequences deduced from them ? All the knowledge 
we have in agriculture, gardening, chemistry, and medicine, is 
built upon the same foundation. And if ever our philosophy 
concerning the human mind is carried so far as to deserve the 
name of science, which ought never to be despaired of, it must 
be by observing facts, reducing them to general rules, and draw- 
ing just conclusions from them. What we commonly call natural 
causes might, with more propriety, be called natural signs, and 
what we call effects, the things signified. The causes have no 
proper efficiency or causality, as far as we know ; and all we can 
certainly affirm is, that nature hath established a constant con- 
junction between them and the things called their effects ; and 
hath given to mankind a disposition to observe those connexions ; 
to confide in their continuance, and to make use of them for the 
improvement of our knowledge, and increase of our power. 

[A second class is that wherein the connexion between the 
sign and thing signified is not only established by nature, but 
discovered to us by a natural principle, without reasoning or 
experience.] Of this kind are the natural signs of human 
thoughts, purposes, and desires, which have been already men- 
tioned as the natural language of mankind. An infant may be 
put into a fright by an angry countenance, and soothed again by 
smiles and blandishments. A child that has a good musical ear, 
may be put to sleep or to dance, may be made merry or sorrow- 
ful, by the modulation of musical sounds. The principles of all 
the fine arts, and of what we call a fine taste, may be resolved 
into connexions of this kind. A fine taste may be improved by 
reasoning and experience ; but if the first principles of it were 
not planted in our minds by nature, it could never be acquired. 
Nay, we have already made it appear, that a great part of this 
knowledge, which we have by nature, is lost by the disuse of 
natural signs, and the substitution of artificial in their place. 

\_A third class of natural signs comprehends those which, 
though we never before had any notion or conception of the 



of touch. 443 

tiling signified, do suggest it, or conjure it up, as it were, by a 
natural kind of magic, and at once give us a conception, and 
create a belief of it.] I showed formerly, that our sensations 
suggest to us a sentient being or mind to which they belong : a 
being which hath a permanent existence, although the sensations 
are transient and of short duration : a being which is still the 
same, while its sensations and other operations are varied ten 
thousand ways : a being which hath the same relation to all that 
infinite variety of thoughts, purposes, actions, affections, enjoy- 
ments, and sufferings, which we are conscious of, or can remem- 
ber. The conception of a mind is neither an idea of sensation 
nor of reflection ; for it is neither like any of our sensations, nor 
like any thing we are conscious of. The first conception of it, 
as well as the belief of it, and of the common relation it bears to 
all that we are conscious of, or remember, is suggested to every 
thinking being, we do not know how. 

The notion of hardness in bodies, as well as the belief of it, 
are got in a similar manner ; being by an original principle of 
our nature annexed to that sensation which we have when we 
feel a hard body. And so naturally and necessarily does the 
sensation convey the notion and belief of hardness, that hitherto 
they have been confounded by the most acute inquirers into the 
principles of human nature, although they appear, upon accurate 
reflection, not only to be different things, but as unlike as pain 
is to the point of a sword. 

[It may be observed, that as the first class of natural signs I 
have mentioned, is the foundation of true philosophy, and the 
second, the foundation of the fine arts, or of taste ; so the last is 
the foundation of common sense ; a part of human nature which 
hath never been explained.] 

I take it for granted, that the notion of hardness, and the 
belief of it, is first got by means of that particular sensation, 
which, as far back as we can remember, does invariably suggest 
it ; and that if we had never had such a feeling, we should never 
have had any notion of hardness. [I think it is evident, that we 
cannot, by reasoning from our sensations, collect the existence of 
bodies at all, far less any of their qualities. This hath been 
proved by unanswerable arguments by the Bishop of Cloyne, and 
by the author of the " Treatise of Human Nature."] It appears 
as evident, that this connexion between our sensations and the 
conception and belief of external existences cannot be produced 
by habit, experience, education, or any principle of human 
nature that hath been admitted by philosophers. At the same 
time it is a fact, that such sensations are invariably connected 
with the conception and belief of external existences. Hence, 
by all rules of just reasoning, we must conclude, that this con- 
nexion is the effect of our constitution, and ought to be con- 



444 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

sidered as an original principle of human nature, till we find 
some more general principle into which it may be resolved. 

IV. Of hardness, and other primary qualities. — Further I 
observe, that hardness is a quality, of which we have as clear and 
distinct a conception as of any thing whatsoever. The cohesion 
of the parts of a body with more or less force, is perfectly under- 
stood, though its cause is not : we know what it is, as well as 
how it affects the touch. It is therefore a quality of a quite 
different order from those secondary qualities we have already 
taken notice of, whereof we know no more naturally, than that 
they are adapted to raise certain sensations in us. If hardness 
were a quality of the same kind, it would be a proper inquiry 
for philosophers, what hardness in bodies is ? and we should 
have had various hypotheses about it, as well as about colour and 
heat. But it is evident that any such hypothesis would be 
ridiculous. If any man should say, that hardness in bodies 
is a certain vibration of their parts, or that it is certain effluvia 
emitted by them which affect our touch in the manner we feel ; 
such hypotheses would shock common sense ; because we all 
know, that if the parts of a body adhere strongly, it is hard, 
although it should neither emit effluvia, nor vibrate. Yet at the 
same time, no man can say, but that effluvia, or the vibration of 
the parts of a body, might have affected our touch in the same 
manner that hardness now does, if it had so pleased the Author 
of our nature : and if either of these hypotheses is applied to 
explain a secondary quality, such as smell, or taste, or sound, or 
colour, or heat, there appears no manifest absurdity in the 
supposition. 

V. The distinction behvixt primary and secondary qualities 
hath had several revolutions. Democritus and Epicurus, and their 
followers, maintained it. Aristotle and the Peripatetics abolished 
it. Des Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke, revived it, and were 
thought to have put it in a very clear light. But Bishop Berke- 
ley again discarded this distinction, by such proofs as must be 
convincing to those that hold the received doctrine of ideas. Yet, 
after all, there appears to be a real foundation for it in the prin- 
ciples of our nature. 

What hath been said of hardness, is so easily applicable, not 
only to its opposite, softness, but likewise to roughness and 
smoothness, to figure and motion, that we may be excused from 
making the application, which would only be a repetition of what 
hath been said. All these, by means of certain corresponding 
sensations of touch, are presented to the mind as real external 
qualities ; the conception and the belief of them are invariably 
connected with the corresponding sensations, by an original prin- 
ciple of human nature. Their sensations have no name in any 
language ; they have not only been overlooked by the vulgar, 



OF TOUCH. 445 

but by philosophers ; or if they have been at all taken notice of, 
they have been confounded with the external qualities which 
they suggest. 

VI. Of extension. — It is further to be observed, that hardness 
and softness, roughness and smoothness, figure and motion, do 
all suppose extension, and cannot be conceived without it ; yet 
I think it must, on the other hand, be allowed, that if we had 
never felt any thing hard or soft, rough or smooth, figured or 
moved, we should never have had a conception of extension : so 
that there is good ground to believe, that the notion of extension 
could not be prior to that of other primary qualities; so it is 
certain that it could not be posterior to the notion of any of 
them, being necessarily implied in them all. 

[Extension, therefore, seems to be a quality suggested to us, 
by the very same suggestions which suggest the other qualities 
above mentioned.] ggF When I grasp a ball in my hand, I per- 
ceive it at once hard, figured, and extended. The feeling is very 
simple, and hath not the least resemblance to any quality of 
body. Yet it suggests to us three primary qualities perfectly 
distinct from one another, as well as from the sensation which 
indicates them. When I move my hand along the table, the 
feeling is so simple, that I find it difficult to distinguish it into 
things of different natures ; yet it immediately suggests hard- 
ness, smoothness, extension, and motion, things of very different 
natures, and all of them as distinctly understood as the feeling 
which suggests them. 

We are commonly told by philosophers, that we get the idea 
of extension by feeling along the extremities of a body, as if 
there was no manner of difficulty in the matter. I have sought, 
with great pains I confess, to find out how this idea can be got 
by feeling, but I have sought in vain. Yet it is one of the 
clearest and most distinct notions we have; nor is there any 
thing whatsoever, about which the human understanding can 
carry on so many long and demonstrative trains of reasoning. 

The notion of extension is so familiar to us from infancy, and 
so constantly obtruded by every thing we see and feel, that we 
are apt to think it obvious how it comes into the mind ; but 
upon a narrower examination, we shall find it utterly inexpli- 
cable. [It is true we have feelings of touch, which every mo- 
ment present extension to the mind; but how they come to do so 
is the question ; for those feelings do no more resemble extension, 
than they resemble justice or courage : nor can the existence of 
extended things be inferred from those feelings by any rules of 
reasoning ; so that the feelings we have by touch, can neither 
explain how we get the notion, nor how we come by the belief 
of extended things.] 

What hath imposed upon philosophers in this matter is, that 



446 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

the feelings of touch, which suggest primary qualities, have no 
names, nor are they ever reflected upon. They pass through the 
mind instantaneously, and serve only to introduce the notion and 
belief of external things, which by our constitution are connected 
with them. They are natural signs, and the mind immediately 
passes to the thing signified, without making the least reflection 
upon the sign, or observing that there was any such thing. 
Hence it hath always been taken for granted, that the ideas of 
extension, figure, and motion, are ideas of sensation, which 
enter into the mind by the sense of touch, in the same manner 
as the sensations of sound and smell do by the ear and nose. 
The sensations of touch are so connected by our constitution 
with the notions of extension, figure, and motion, that philoso- 
phers have mistaken the one for the other, and never have been 
able to discern that they were not only distinct things, but alto- 
gether unlike. However, if we will reason distinctly upon this 
subject, we ought to give names to those feelings of touch ; we 
must accustom ourselves to attend to them, and to reflect upon 
them, that we may be able to disjoin them from, and to compare 
them with the qualities signified or suggested by them. 

[The habit of doing this is not to be attained without pains 
and practice ; and till a man hath acquired this habit, it will be 
impossible for him to think distinctly, or to judge right upon 
this subject.] 

Let a man press his hand against the table ; he feels it hard. 
But what is the meaning of this ? The meaning undoubtedly is, 
that he hath a certain feeling of touch, from which he concludes, 
without any reasoning, or comparing ideas, that there is some- 
thing external really existing, whose parts stick so firmly together, 
that they cannot be displaced without considerable force. 

There is here a feeling, and a conclusion drawn from it, or 
some way suggested by it. In order to compare these, we must 
view them separately, and then consider by what tie they are 
connected, and wherein they resemble one another. The hard- 
ness of the table is the conclusion, the feeling is the medium 
by which we are led to that conclusion. Let a man attend dis- 
tinctly to this medium, and to the conclusion, and he will per- 
ceive them to be as unlike as any two things in nature. The 
one is a sensation of the mind, which can have no existence but 
in a sentient being ; nor can it exist one moment longer than it 
is felt : the other is in the table, and we conclude, without any 
difficulty, that it was in the table before it was felt, and con- 
tinues after the feeling is over. The one implies no kind of 
extension, nor parts, nor cohesion ; the other implies all these. 
Both indeed admit of degrees, and the feeling, beyond a certain 
degree, is a species of pain ; but adamantine hardness does not 
imply the least pain. 



of touch. 447 

And as the feeling hath no similitude to hardness, so neither 
can our reason perceive the least tie or connexion between them ; 
nor will the logician ever be able to show a reason why we should 
conclude hardness from this feeling, rather than softness, or any 
other quality whatsoever. But in reality all mankind are led by 
their constitution to conclude hardness from this feeling. 

[The sensation of heat, and the sensation we have by pressing 
a hard body, are equally feelings ; nor can we by reasoning draw 
any conclusion from the one, but what may be drawn from the 
other: but by our constitution we conclude from the first an 
obscure or occult quality, of which we have only this relative 
conception, that it is something adapted to raise in us the sensa- 
tion of heat ; from the second, we conclude a quality of which 
we have a clear and distinct conception, to wit, the hardness of 
the body.] 

VII. Of extension. — To put this matter in another light, it 
may be proper to try whether from sensation alone we can col- 
lect any notion of extension, figure, motion, and space. I take 
it for granted, that a blind man hath the same notion of exten- 
sion, figure, and motion, as a man that sees ; that Dr. Saunderson 
had the same notion of a cone, a cylinder, and a sphere, and of 
the motions and distances of the heavenly bodies, as Sir Isaac 
Newton. 

As sight, therefore, is not necessary for our acquiring those 
notions, we shall leave it out altogether in our inquiry into the 
first origin of them : and shall suppose a blind man, by some 
strange distemper, to have lost all the experience, and habits, 
and notions he had got by touch ; not to have the least concep- 
tion of the existence, figure, dimensions, or extension, either of 
his own body, or of any other ; but to have all his knowledge of 
external things to acquire anew, by means of sensation and the 
power of reason, which we suppose to remain entire. 

$M* We shall first suppose his body fixed immoveably in one 
place, and that he can only have the feelings of touch, by the ap- 
plication of other bodies to it. Suppose him first to be pricked 
with a pin : this will, no doubt, give a smart sensation : he feels 
pain ; but what can he infer from it ? Nothing, surely, with 
regard to the existence or figure of a pin. He can infer nothing 
from this species of pain, which he might not as well infer from 
the gout or sciatica. Common sense might lead him to think 
that this pain had a cause ; but whether this cause was body or 
spirit, extended or unextended, figured or not figured, he could 
not possibly, from any principles he is supposed to have, form 
the least conjecture. Having had formerly no notion of body 
or of extension, the prick of a pin could give him none. 

Suppose next a body not pointed, but blunt, is applied to his 
body with a force gradually increased until it bruises him. What 



448 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

has he got by this, but another sensation, or train of sensations, 
from which he will be able to conclude as little as from the 
former ? A schirrous tumor in any inward part of the body, by 
pressing upon the adjacent parts, may give the same kind of 
sensation as the pressure of an external body, without conveying 
any notion but that of pain, which surely hath no resemblance 
to extension. 

Suppose, thirdly, that the body applied to him touched a 
larger or a lesser part of his body. Could this give him any 
idea of its extension or dimensions ? To me it seems impos- 
sible that it should, unless he had some previous notion of the 
dimensions and figure of his own body, to serve him as a mea- 
sure. When my two hands touch the extremities of a body, 
if T know them to be a foot asunder, I easily collect that the 
body is a foot long ; and if I know them to be five feet asunder, 
that it is five feet long: but if I know not what the distance of 
my hands is, I cannot know the length of the object they grasp ; 
and if I have no previous notion of hands at all, or of distance 
between them, I can never get that notion by their being 
touched. 

Suppose, again, (4) that a body is drawn along his hands or 
face w r hile they are at rest. Can this give him any notion of 
space or motion ? It no doubt gives a new feeling ; but how it 
should convey a notion of space or motion to one who had none 
before, I cannot conceive. The blood moves along the arteries 
and veins, and this motion, when violent, is felt ; but I imagine 
no man, by this feeling, could get the conception of space or 
motion, if he had it not before. Such a motion may give a 
certain succession of feelings, as the cholic may do ; but no feel- 
ings, nor any combination of feelings, can ever resemble space 
or motion. 

Let us next (5) suppose that he makes some instinctive effort 
to move his head or his hand ; but that no motion follows, either 
on account of external resistance or of palsy. Can this effort 
convey the notion of space and motion to one who never had it 
before ? Surely it cannot. 

Last of all, (6) let us suppose that he moves a limb by instinct, 
without having had any previous notion of space or motion. He 
has here a new sensation, which accompanies the flexure of joints, 
and the swelling of muscles. But how this sensation can con- 
vey into his mind the idea of space and motion, is still altogether 
mysterious and unintelligible. The motions of the heart and 
lungs are all performed by the contraction of muscles, yet give 
no conception of space or motion. An embryo in the womb 
has many such motions, and probably the feelings that accom- 
pany them, without any idea of space or motion. 

Upon the whole, it appears that our philosophers have imposed 



of touch. 449 

upon themselves and upon us, in pretending to deduce from sen- 
sation the first origin of our notions of external existences, of 
space, motion, and extension, and all the primary qualities of 
body, that is, the qualities whereof we have the most clear and 
distinct conception. These qualities do not at all tally with any 
system of the human faculties that hath been advanced. They 
have no resemblance to any sensation, or to any operation of our 
minds ; and therefore they cannot be ideas either of sensation or 
of reflection. The very conception of them is irreconcilable to 
the principles of all our philosophic systems of the understanding. 
The belief of them is no less so. 

VIII. Of the existence of a material world. — It is beyond our 
power to say, when or in what order we came by our notions of 
these qualities. When we trace the operations of our minds as 
far back as memory and reflection can carry us, we find them 
already in possession of our imagination and belief, and quite 
familiar to the mind : but how they came first into its acquaint- 
ance, or what has given them so strong a hold of our belief, and 
what regard they deserve, are no doubt very important questions 
in the philosophy of human nature. 

Shall we, with the Bishop of Cloyne, serve them with a quo 
warranto, and have them tried at the bar of philosophy, upon the 
statute of the ideal system ? Indeed, in this trial they seem to 
have come off very pitifully. For although they had very able 
counsel, learned in the law, viz., Des Cartes, Malebranche, and 
Locke, who said every thing they could for their clients, the 
Bishop of Cloyne, believing them to be aiders and abettors of 
heresy and schism, prosecuted them with great vigour, fully 
answered all that had been pleaded in their defence, and silenced 
their ablest advocates, who seem, for half a century past, to de- 
cline the argument, and to trust to the favour of the jury rather 
than to the strength of their pleadings. 

Thus, the wisdom of philosophy is set in opposition to the 
common sense of mankind. The first pretends to demonstrate a 
priori, that there can be no such thing as a material world ; that 
sun, moon, stars, and earth, vegetable and animal bodies, are and 
can be nothing else but sensations in the mind, or images of those 
sensations in the memory and imagination ; that, like pain and joy, 
they can have no existence when they are not thought of. The 
last can conceive no otherwise of this opinion, than as a kind of 
metaphysical lunacy ; and concludes that too much learning is apt 
to make men mad ; and that the man who seriously entertains this 
belief, though in other respects he may be a very good man, as a 
man may be who believes that he is made of glass, yet surely he 
hath a soft place in his understanding, and hath been hurt by 
much thinking. 

This opposition betwixt philosophy and common sense is apt 

2g 



450 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

to have a very unhappy influence upon the philosopher himself. 
He sees human nature in an odd, unamiable, and mortifying 
light. He considers himself, and the rest of his species, as 
born under a necessity of believing ten thousand absurdities and 
contradictions, and endowed with such a pittance of reason as is 
just sufficient to make this unhappy discovery : and this is all the 
fruit of his profound speculations. Such notions of human na- 
ture tend to slacken every nerve of the soul, to put every noble 
purpose and sentiment out of countenance, and spread a melan- 
choly gloom over the whole face of things. 

If this is wisdom, let me be deluded with the vulgar. I find 
something within me that recoils against it, and inspires more 
reverent sentiments of the human kind, and of the universal ad- 
ministration. Common sense and reason have both one Author, 
— that Almighty Author, in all whose other works we observe a 
consistency, uniformity, and beauty, which charm and delight 
the understanding : there must therefore be some order and con- 
sistency in the human faculties, as well as in other parts of his 
workmanship. A man that thinks reverently of his own kind, 
and esteems true wisdom and philosophy, will not be fond, nay, 
will be very suspicious, of such strange and paradoxical opinions. 
If they are false, they disgrace philosophy ; and if they are true, 
they degrade the human species, and make us justly ashamed of 
our frame. 

To what purpose is it for philosophy to decide against common 
sense in this or any other matter ? The belief of a material 
world is older, and of more authority, than any principles of 
philosophy. It declines the tribunal of reason, and laughs at 
all the artillery of the logician. It retains its sovereign autho- 
rity in spite of all the edicts of philosophy, and reason itself 
must stoop to its orders. Even those philosophers who have 
disowned the authority of our notions of an external material 
world, confess that they find themselves under a necessity of 
submitting to their power. 

Methinks, therefore, it were better to make a virtue of neces- 
sity : and since we cannot get rid of the vulgar notion and belief 
of an external world, to reconcile our reason to it as well as we 
can : for if reason should stomach and fret ever so much at this 
yoke, she cannot throw it off ; if she will not be the servant of 
common sense, she must be her slave. 

In order, therefore, to- reconcile reason to common sense in 
this matter, I beg leave to offer to the consideration of philoso- 
phers these two observations. [First. That in all this debate 
about the existence of a material world, it hath been taken for 
granted on both sides, that this same material world, if any 
such there be, must be the express image of our sensations ; that 
we can have no conception of any material thing which is not 



OF TOUCH. 451 

like some sensation in our minds ; and particularly that the sen- 
sations of touch are images of extension, hardness, figure, and 
motion.] Every argument brought against the existence of a 
material world, either by the Bishop of Cloyne, or by the au- 
thor of the " Treatise of Human Nature," supposeth this. If this 
is true, their arguments are conclusive and unanswerable : but, 
on the other hand, if it is not true, there is no shadow of argu- 
ment left. Have those philosophers, then, given any solid proof 
of this hypothesis, upon which the whole weight of so strange a 
system rests ? No. They have not so much as attempted to 
do it. But because ancient and modern philosophers have 
agreed in this opinion, they have taken it for granted. But let 
us, as becomes philosophers, lay aside authority ; we need not 
surely consult Aristotle or Locke, to know whether pain be like 
the point of a sword. I have as clear a conception of extension 
hardness, and motion, as I have of the point of a sword ; and, 
with some pains and practice, I can form as clear a notion of 
the other sensations of touch, as I have of pain. When I do 
so, and compare them together, it appears to me clear as 
daylight, that the former are not of kin to the latter, nor re- 
semble them in any one feature. They are as unlike, yea, as cer- 
tainly and manifestly unlike, as pain is to the point of a sword. 
It may be true that those sensations first introduced the material 
world to our acquaintance ; it may be true that it seldom or 
never appears without their company : but for all that, they are 
as unlike as the passion of anger is to those features of the coun- 
tenance which attend it. 

So that, in the sentence those philosophers have passed against 
the material world, there is an error personge. Their proof 
touches not matter, or any of its qualities, but strikes directly 
against an idol of their own imagination, a material world made 
of ideas and sensations, which never had nor can have an exist- 
ence. 

[Secondly. The very existence of our conceptions of extension, 
figure, and motion, since they are neither ideas of sensation or 
reflection, overturns the whole ideal system by which the material 
world hath been tried and condemned : so that there hath been 
likewise in this sentence an error juris.] 

It is a very fine and a just observation of Locke, that as no 
human art can create a single particle of matter^ and the whole 
extent of our power over the material world consists in com- 
pounding, combining, and disjoining the matter made to our 
hands ; so in the world of thought, the materials are all made 
by nature, and can only be variously combined and disjoined by 
us. So that it is impossible for reason or prejudice, true or 
false philosophy, to produce one simple notion or conception, 
which is not the work of nature and the result of our constitution. 

2 g 2 



452 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

The conception of extension, motion, and the other attributes 
of matter, cannot be the effect of error or prejudice ; it must be 
the work of nature. And the power or faculty by which we 
acquire those conceptions must be something different from any 
power of the human mind that hath been explained, since it is 
neither sensation nor reflection. 

This I would therefore humbly propose as an experimentum 
crucis, by which the ideal system must stand or fall; and it 
brings the matter to a short issue : extension, figure, motion, 
may, any one or all of them, be taken for the subject of this 
experiment. Either they are ideas of sensation, or they are not. 
If any one of them can be shown to be an idea of sensation, or 
to have the least resemblance to any sensation, I lay my hand 
upon my mouth, and give up all pretence to reconcile reason to 
common sense in this matter, and must suffer the ideal scepticism 
to triumph. But if, on the other hand, they are not ideas of sen- 
sation, nor like to any sensation, then the ideal system is a rope of 
sand, and all the laboured arguments of the sceptical philosophy 
against a material world, and against the existence of every thing 
but impressions and ideas, proceed upon. a false hypothesis. 

If our philosophy concerning the mind be so lame with regard 
to the origin of our notions of the clearest, most simple, and 
most familiar objects of thought, and the powers from which 
they are derived, can we expect that it should be more perfect 
in the account it gives of the origin of our opinions and belief ? 
We have seen already some instances of its imperfection in this 
respect : and perhaps that same nature which hath given us the 
power to conceive things altogether unlike to any of our sensa- 
tions, or to any operation of our minds, hath likewise provided 
for our belief of them, by some part of our constitution hitherto 
not explained. 

Bishop Berkeley hath proved, beyond the possibility of reply, 
that we cannot by reasoning infer the existence of matter from 
our sensations : and the author of the " Treatise of Human Na- 
ture" hath proved no less clearly that we cannot by reasoning 
infer the existence of our own or other minds from our sensations. 
But are we to admit nothing but what can be proved by reason- 
ing ? Then we must be sceptics indeed, and believe nothing at 
all. The author of the " Treatise of Human Nature" appears to 
me to be but a half-sceptic. He hath not followed his principles 
so far as they lead him : but after having, with unparalleled intre- 
pidity and success, combated vulgar prejudices, when he had but 
one blow to strike, his courage fails him, he fairly lays down 
his arms, and yields himself a captive to the most common of all 
vulgar prejudices, I mean the belief of the existence of his own 
impressions and ideas. 

I beg therefore to have the honour of making an addition to 



of touch. 453 

the sceptical system, without which I conceive it cannot hang 
together. I affirm that [the belief of the existence of impres- 
sions and ideas is as little supported by reason as that of the 
existence of minds and bodies.] No man ever did or could offer 
any reason for this belief. Des Cartes took it for granted, that he 
thought, and had sensations and ideas : so have all his followers 
done. Even the hero of scepticism hath yielded this point, I 
crave leave to say, weakly and imprudently. I say so, because 
I am persuaded that there is no principle of his philosophy that 
obliged him to make this concession. And what is there in 
impressions and ideas so formidable, that this all- conquering 
philosophy, after triumphing over every other existence, should 
pay homage to them ? Besides, the concession is dangerous : for 
BaF belief is of such a nature, that if you leave any root, it will 
spread ; and you may more easily pull it up altogether than 
say, Hitherto shalt thou go, and no further ; the existence of 
impressions and ideas I give up to thee : but see thou pretend to 
nothing more. A thorough and consistent sceptic will never, 
therefore, yield this point ; and while he holds it, you can never 
oblige him to yield any thing else. 

To such a sceptic I have nothing to say ; but of the semi- 
sceptics I should beg to know why they believe the existence of 
their impressions and ideas. The true reason I take to be, be- 
cause they cannot help it ; and the same reason will lead them 
to believe many other things. 

[All reasoning must be from first principles, and for first prin- 
ciples no other reason can be given but this, that, by the consti- 
tution of our nature, we are under a necessity of assenting to 
them.] Such principles are parts of our constitution, no less 
than the power of thinking : reason can neither make nor destroy 
them ; nor can it do any thing without them : ggr it is like a 
telescope, which may help a man to see further, who hath eyes ; 
but without eyes a telescope shows nothing at all. A mathema- 
tician cannot prove the truth of his axioms, nor can he prove 
any thing, unless he takes them for granted. We cannot prove 
the existence of our minds, nor even of our thoughts and sen- 
sations. A historian, or a witness, can prove nothing, unless it 
is taken for granted that the memory and senses may be trusted. 
A natural philosopher can prove nothing, unless it is taken for 
granted that the course of nature is steady and uniform. 

How or when I got such first principles, upon which I build 
all my reasoning, I know not ; for I had them before I can 
remember : but I am sure they are parts of my constitution, and 
that I cannot throw them off. That our thoughts and sensations 
must have a subject, which we call our self, is not therefore an 
opinion got by reasoning, but a natural principle. That our 
sensations of touch indicate something external, extended, 



454 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

figured, hard or soft, is not a deduction of reason, but a natural 
principle. The belief of it, and the very conception of it, are 
equally parts of our constitution. If we are deceived in it, we 
are deceived by Him that made us, and there is no remedy. 

I do not mean to affirm, that the sensations of touch do from 
the very first suggest the same notions of body and its qualities, 
which they do when we are grown up. Perhaps nature is frugal 
in this, as in her other operations. The passion of love, with all 
its concomitant sentiments and desires, is naturally suggested by 
the perception of beauty in the other sex. Yet the same per- 
ception does not suggest the tender passion, till a certain period 
of life. A blow given to an infant, raises grief and lamentation ; 
but when he grows up, it as naturally stirs resentment, and 
prompts him to resistance. Perhaps a child in the womb, or for 
some short period of its existence, is merely a sentient being : 
the faculties, by which it perceives an external world, by which 
it reflects on its own thoughts, and existence, and relation to 
other things, as well as its reasoning and moral faculties, do pos- 
sibly unfold themselves by degrees ; so that it is inspired with 
the various principles of common sense, as with the passions of 
love and resentment, when it has occasion for them. 

IX. Of the systems of philosophers concerning the senses. — 
[All the systems of philosophers about our senses and their 
objects have split upon this rock, of not distinguishing properly 
sensations, which can have no existence but when they are felt, 
from the things suggested by them.~] Aristotle, with as distin- 
guishing a head as ever applied to philosophical disquisitions, 
confounds these two ; and makes every sensation to be the form, 
without the matter, of the thing perceived by it. &iF As the 
impression of a seal upon wax has the form of the seal, but 
nothing of the matter of it ; so he conceived our sensations to 
be impressions upon the mind, which bear the image, likeness, or 
form of the external thing perceived, without the matter of it. 
Colour, sound, and smell, as well as extension, figure, and hard- 
ness, are, according to him, various forms of matter : our sensa- 
tions are the same forms imprinted on the mind, and perceived 
in its own intellect. It is evident from this, that Aristotle made 
no distinction between primary and secondary qualities of bodies, 
although that distinction was made by Democritus, Epicurus, 
and others of the ancients. 

Des Cartes, Malebranche, and Locke, revived the distinction 
between primary and secondary qualities. But they made the 
secondary qualities mere sensations, and the primary ones resem- 
blances of our sensations. They maintained, that colour, sound, 
and heat, are not any thing in bodies, but sensations of the mind : 
at the same time, they acknowledged some particular texture or 
modification of the body, to be the cause or occasion of those 



OF TOUCH. 455 

sensations ; but to this modification they gave no name. Whereas, 
by the vulgar, the names of colour, heat, and sound, are but 
rarely applied to the sensations, and most commonly to those 
unknown causes of them ; as hath been already explained. The 
constitution of our nature leads us rather to attend to the things 
signified by the sensation, than to the sensation itself, and to 
give a name to the former rather than to the latter. Thus we 
see, that with regard to secondary qualities, these philosophers 
thought with the vulgar, and with common sense. Their para- 
doxes were only an abuse of words. For when they maintain 
as an important modern discovery, that there is no heat in the 
fire, they mean no more, than that the fire does not feel heat, 
which every one knew before. 

With regard to primary qualities, these philosophers erred 
more grossly : they indeed believed the existence of those quali- 
ties ; but they did not at all attend to the sensations that suggest 
them, which having no names, have been as little considered as 
if they had no existence. They were aware, that figure, exten- 
sion, and hardness, are perceived by means of sensations of touch ; 
whence they rashly concluded, that these sensations must be 
images and resemblances of figure, extension, and hardness. 

The received hypothesis of ideas naturally led them to this 
conclusion; and indeed could not consist with any other; for 
according to that hypothesis, external things must be perceived 
by means of images of them in the mind ; and what can those 
images of external things in the mind be, but the sensations by 
which we perceive them ? 

This however was to draw a conclusion from a hypothesis 
against fact. We need not have recourse to any hypothesis to 
know what our sensations are, or what they are like. By a pro- 
per degree of reflection and attention we may understand them 
perfectly, and be as certain that they are not like any quality of 
body, as we can be, that the toothache is not like a triangle. 
How a sensation should instantly make us conceive and believe 
the existence of an external thing altogether unlike to it, I do 
not pretend to know ; and when I say that the one suggests the 
other, I mean not to explain the manner of their connexion, but 
to express a fact, which every one may be conscious of; namely, 
that, by a law of our nature, such a conception and belief con- 
stantly and immediately follow the sensation. 

[Bishop Berkeley gave new light to this subject, by showing, 
that the qualities of an inanimate thing, such as matter is con- 
ceived to be, cannot resemble any sensation ; that it is impossible 
to conceive any thing like the sensations of our minds, but the 
sensations of other minds.~\ Every one that attends properly to 
his sensations must assent to this ; yet it had escaped all the 
philosophers that came before Berkeley : it had escaped even the 



456 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. V. 

ingenious Locke, who had so much practised reflection on the 
operations of his own mind. So difficult it is to attend properly- 
even to our own feelings. They are so accustomed to pass 
through the mind unobserved, and instantly to make way for 
that which nature intended them to signify, that it is extremely 
difficult to stop, and survey them ; and when we think we have 
acquired this power, perhaps the mind still fluctuates between 
the sensation and its associated quality, so that they mix toge- 
ther, and present something to the imagination that is com- 
pounded of both. IHF Thus in a globe or cylinder, whose oppo- 
site sides are quite unlike in colour, if you turn it slowly, the 
colours are perfectly distinguishable, and their dissimilitude is 
manifest ; but if it is turned fast, they lose their distinction, and 
seem to be of one and the same colour. 

No succession can be more quick than that of tangible quali- 
ties to the sensations with which nature has associated them : 
but when one has once acquired the art of making them separate 
and distinct objects of thought, he will then clearly perceive, 
that the maxim of Bishop Berkeley above mentioned is self- 
evident ; and that the features of the face are not more unlike 
to a passion of the mind which they indicate, than the sensations 
of touch are to the primary qualities of body. 

But let us observe what use the Bishop makes of this important 
discovery : why, he concludes, that we can have no conception of 
an inanimate substance, such as matter is conceived to be, or of 
any of its qualities ; and that there is the strongest ground to 
believe that there is no existence in nature but minds, sensations, 
and ideas : if there is any other kind of existences, it must be 
what we neither have nor can have any conception of. But how 
does this follow ? Why thus : we can have no conception of any 
thing but what resembles some sensation or idea in our minds ; 
but the sensations and ideas in our minds can resemble nothing 
but the sensations and ideas in other minds ; therefore, the con- 
clusion is evident. This argument, we see, leans upon two pro- 
positions. The last of them the ingenious author hath indeed 
made evident to all that understand his reasoning, and can 
attend to their own sensations : but the first proposition he never 
attempts to prove ; it is taken from the doctrine of ideas, which 
hath been so universally received by philosophers, that it was 
thought to need no proof. 

We may here again observe, that this acute writer argues from 
a hypothesis against fact, and against the common sense of man- 
kind. That we can have no conception of any thing, unless 
there is some impression, sensation, or idea, in our minds which 
resembles it, is indeed an opinion which hath been very generally 
received among philosophers ; but it is neither self-evident, nor 
hath it been clearly proved : and therefore it had been more rea- 



OF SEEING. 457 

sonable to call in question this doctrine of philosophers, than to 
discard the material world, and by that means expose philosophy 
to the ridicule of all men who will not offer up common sense 
as a sacrifice to metaphysics. 

We ought, however, to do this justice both to the Bishop of 
Cloyne and to the author of the " Treatise of Human Nature," 
to acknowledge, that their conclusions are justly drawn from the 
doctrine of ideas, which has been so universally received. On 
the other hand, from the character of Bishop Berkeley, and of 
his predecessors Des Cartes, Locke, and Malebranche, we may 
venture to say, that if they had seen all the consequences of this 
doctrine, as clearly as the author before mentioned did, they 
would have suspected it vehemently, and examined it more care- 
fully than they appear to have done. 

The theory of ideas, like «the Trojan horse, had a specious 
appearance both of innocence and beauty ; but if those philoso- 
phers had known that it carried in its belly death and destruction 
to all science and common sense, they w T ould not have broken 
down their walls to give it admittance. 

That we have clear and distinct conceptions of extension, 
figure, motion, and other attributes of body, which are neither 
sensations, nor like any sensation, is a fact of which we may be 
as certain, as that we have sensations. And that all mankind 
have a fixed belief of an external material world, a belief which 
is neither got by reasoning nor education, and a belief which we 
cannot shake off, even when we seem to have strong arguments 
against it, and no shadow of argument for it, is likewise a fact, 
for which we have all the evidence that the nature of the thing 
admits. These facts are phenomena of human nature, from 
which we may justly argue against any hypothesis, however 
generally received. But to argue from a hypothesis against facts, 
is contrary to the rules of true philosophy. 



CHAPTER VI. 



OF SEEING. 



I. The excellence and dignity of this faculty. — The advances 
made in the knowledge of optics in the last age, and in the pre- 
sent, and chiefly the discoveries of Sir Isaac Newton, do honour, 
not to philosophy only, but to human nature. Such discoveries 
ought for ever to put to shame the ignoble attempts of our 
modern sceptics to depreciate the human understanding, and to 
dispirit men in the search of truth, by representing the human 
faculties as fit for nothing, but to lead us into absurdities and 
contradictions. 



458 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

Of the faculties called the Jive senses, sight is without doubt 
the noblest. The rays of light, which minister to this sense, 
and of which, without it, we could never have had the least con- 
ception, are the most wonderful and astonishing part of the inani- 
mate creation. We must be satisfied of this, if we consider their 
extreme minuteness, their inconceivable velocity, the regular 
variety of colours which they exhibit, the invariable laws accord- 
ing to which they are acted upon by other bodies, in their re- 
flections, inflections, and refractions, without the least change of 
their original properties, and the facility with which they pervade 
bodies of great density, and of the closest texture, without resist- 
ance, without crowding or disturbing one another, without giving 
the least sensible impulse to the lightest bodies. 

The structure of the eye, and of all its appurtenances, the 
admirable contrivances of nature for performing all its various 
external and internal motions, and the variety in the eyes of dif- 
ferent animals, suited to their several natures and ways of life, 
do clearly demonstrate this organ to be a masterpiece of nature's 
work. And he must be very ignorant of what hath been disco- 
vered about it, or have a very strange cast of understanding, who 
can seriously doubt whether or not the rays of light and the 
eye were made for one another, with consummate wisdom, and 
perfect skill in optics. 

If we should suppose an order of beings, endued with every 
human faculty but that of sight, how incredible would it appear 
to such beings, accustomed only to the slow informations of touch, 
that by the addition of an organ, consisting of a ball and socket 
of an inch diameter, they might be enabled in an instant of time, 
without changing their place, to perceive the disposition of a 
whole army, or the order of a battle, the figure of a magnificent 
palace, or all the variety of a landscape ? If a man were by feel- 
ing to find out the figure of the Peak of Teneriffe, or even of St. 
Peter's church at Rome, it would be the work of a lifetime. 

It would appear still more incredible to such beings as we have 
supposed, if they were informed of the discoveries which may be 
made by this little organ in things far beyond the reach of any 
other sense : that by means of it we can find our way in the path- 
less ocean ; that we can traverse the globe of the earth, determine 
its figure and dimensions, and delineate every region of it : yea, 
that we can measure the planetary orbs, and make discoveries in 
the sphere of the fixed stars. 

Would it not appear still more astonishing to such beings, if 
they should be further informed, that, by means of this same 
organ, we can perceive the tempers and dispositions, the passions 
and affections of our fellow-creatures, even when they want most 
to conceal them ? That when the tongue is taught most artfully 
to lie and dissemble, the hypocrisy should appear in the coun- 



OF SEEING. 4,59 

tenance to a discerning eye ? And that by this organ, we can 
often perceive what is straight and what is crooked in the mind 
as well as in the body ? How many mysterious things must a 
blind man believe, if he will give credit to the relations of those 
that see ? Surely he needs as strong a faith as is required of a 
good Christian. 

It is not, therefore, without reason, that the faculty of seeing 
is looked upon, not only as more noble than the other senses, but 
as having something in it of a nature superior to sensation. The 
evidence of reason is called seeing, not feeling, smelling, or tast- 
ing. Yea, we are wont to express the manner of the Divine 
knowledge by seeing, as that kind of knowledge which is most 
perfect in us. 

II. Sight discovers almost nothing which the blind may not com- 
prehend. The reason of this. — Notwithstanding what hath been 
said of the dignity and superior nature of this faculty, it is 
worthy of our observation, that there is very little of the know- 
ledge acquired by sight, that may not be communicated to a man 
born blind. One who never saw the light, may be learned and 
knowing in every science, even in optics ; and may make disco- 
veries in every branch of philosophy. He may understand as 
much as another man, not only of the order, distances, and 
motions of the heavenly bodies ; but of the nature of light, and 
of the laws of the reflection and refraction of its rays. He may 
understand distinctly, how those laws produce the phenomena of 
the rainbow, the prism, the camera obscura, and the magic lan- 
tern, and all the powers of the microscope and telescope. This 
is a fact sufficiently attested by experience. 

[In order to perceive the reason of it, we must distinguish the 
appearance that objects make to the eye, from the things sug- 
gested by that appearance : and again, in the visible appearance 
of objects, we must distinguish the appearance of colour from 
the appearance of extension, figure, and motion. First, then, 
as to the visible appearance cf the figure, and motion, and exten- 
sion of bodies, I conceive that a man born blind may have a dis- 
tinct notion, if not of the very things, at least of something 
extremely like to them. May not a blind man be made to con- 
ceive, that a body moving directly from the eye, or directly 
towards it, may appear to be at rest ? and that the same motion 
may appear quicker or slower, according as it is nearer to the eye 
or further off, more direct or more oblique ? May he not be 
made to conceive, that a plain surface, in a certain position, may 
appear as a straight line, and vary its visible figure, as its posi- 
tion, or the position of the eye, is varied ? That a circle seen 
obliquely will appear an ellipse ; and a square, a rhombus or an 
oblong rectangle ? Dr. Saunderson understood the projection of 
the sphere, and the common rules of perspective ; and if he did, 



460 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

he must have understood all that I have mentioned. If there 
were any doubt of Dr. Saunderson's .understanding these things, 
I could mention my having heard him say in conversation, that 
he found great difficulty in understanding Dr. Halley's demon- 
stration of that proposition, That the angles made by the circles 
of the sphere, are equal to the angles made by their representa- 
tives in the stereographic projection : but, said he, when I laid 
aside that demonstration, and considered the proposition in my 
own way, I saw clearly that it must be true. Another gentle- 
man, of undoubted credit, and judgment in these matters, who 
had part in this conversation, remembers it distinctly. 

Secondly. As to the appearance of colour, a blind man must 
be more at a loss ; because he hath no perception that resembles 
it. Yet he may, by a kind of analogy, in part supply this defect. 
To those who see, a scarlet colour signifies an unknown quality 
in bodies, that makes to the eye an appearance which they are 
well acquainted with, and have often observed : to a blind man, 
it signifies an unknown quality that makes to the eye an appear- 
ance which he is unacquainted with. But he can conceive the 
eye to be variously affected by different colours, as the nose is by 
different smells, or the ear by different sounds. Thus he can 
conceive scarlet to differ from blue, as the sound of a trumpet 
does from that of a drum ; or as the smell of an orange differs 
from that of an apple. It is impossible to know whether a 
scarlet colour has the same appearance to me which it hath to 
another man ; and if the appearances of it to different persons 
differed as much as colour does from sound, they might never be 
able to discover this difference. Hence it appears obvious, that 
a blind man might talk long about colours distinctly and perti- 
nently : and if you were to examine him in the dark about the 
nature, composition, and beauty of them, he might be able to 
answer so as not to betray his defect. 

We have seen how far a blind man may go in the knowledge 
of the appearances which things make to the eye. As to the 
things which are suggested by them, or inferred from them ; 
although he could never discover them of himself, yet he may 
understand them perfectly by the information of others. And 
every thing of this kind that enters into our minds by the eye, 
may enter into his by the ear. Thus, for instance, he would 
never, if left to the direction of his own faculties, have dreamed 
of any such thing as light : but he can be informed of every 
thing we know about it. He can conceive, as distinctly as we, 
the minuteness and velocity of its rays, their various degrees of 
refrangibility and reflexibility, and all the magical powers and 
virtues of that wonderful element. He would never of himself 
have found out that there are such bodies as the sun, moon, and 
stars ; but he may be informed of all the noble discoveries of 



OF SEEING. 4gl 

astronomers about their motions, and the laws of nature by which 
they are regulated. Thus . it appears that there is very little 
knowledge got by the eye which may not be communicated by 
language to those who have no eyes. 

If we should suppose that it were as uncommon for men to 
see as it is to be born blind, would not the few who had this 
rare gift appear as prophets and inspired teachers to the many ? 
We conceive inspiration to give a man no new faculty, but to 
communicate to him in a new way, and by extraordinary means, 
what the faculties common to mankind can apprehend, and what 
he can communicate to others by ordinary means. On the sup- 
position we have made, sight would appear to the blind very 
similar to this : for the few who had this gift could communicate 
the knowledge acquired by it to those who had it not. They 
could not indeed convey to the blind any distinct notion of the 
manner in which they acquired this knowledge. A ball and 
socket would seem, to a blind man, in this case, as improper an 
instrument for acquiring such a variety and extent of knowledge, 
as a dream or a vision. The manner in which a man who sees 
discerns so many things by means of the eye, is as unintelligible 
to the blind, as the manner in which a man may be inspired with 
knowledge by the Almighty is to us. Ought the blind man 
therefore, without examination, to treat all pretences to the gift 
of seeing as imposture ? Would he not, if he were candid and 
tractable, find reasonable evidence of the reality of this gift in 
others, and draw great advantages from it to himself? 

The distinction we have made between the visible appearances 
of the objects of sight, and things suggested by them, is necessary 
to give us a just notion of the intention of nature in giving us 
eyes. [If we attend duly to the operation of our mind in the 
use of this faculty, we shall perceive that the visible appearance 
of objects is hardly ever regarded by us. It is not at all made 
an object of thought or reflection, but serves only as a sign to 
introduce to the mind something else, which may be distinctly 
conceived by those who never saw.] 

Thus the visible appearance of things in my room varies almost 
every hour, according as the day is clear or cloudy, as the sun is 
in the east, or south, or west, and as my eye is in one part of the 
room or in another : but I never think of these variations other- 
wise than as signs of morning, noon, or night, of a clear or 
cloudy sky. A book or a chair has a different appearance to the 
eye in every different distance and position ; yet we conceive it 
to be still the same ; and, overlooking the appearance, we imme- 
diately conceive the real figure, distance, and position of the 
body, of which its visible or perspective appearance is a sign and 
indication. 

When I see a man at the distance of ten yards, and afterwards 



462 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

see him at the distance of a hundred yards, his visible appearance, 
in its length, breadth, and all its linear proportions, is ten times 
less in the last case than it is in the first : yet I do not conceive 
him one inch diminished by this diminution of his visible figure. 
Nay, I do not in the least attend to this diminution, even when 
I draw from it the conclusion of his being at a greater distance. 
For such is the subtilty of the mind's operation in this case, that 
we draw the conclusion without perceiving that ever the pre- 
mises entered into the mind. A thousand such instances might 
be produced, in order to show that the visible appearances of 
objects are intended by nature only as signs or indications ; and 
that the mind passes instantly to the thing signified, without 
making the least reflection upon the sign, or even perceiving 
that there is any such thing. It is in a way somewhat similar, 
that the sounds of a language, after it is become familiar, are 
overlooked, and we attend only to the things signified by them. 

It is therefore a just and important observation of the Bishop 
of Cloyne, that the visible appearance of objects is a kind of 
language used by nature to inform us of their distance, magni- 
tude, and figure. And this observation hath been very happily 
applied by that ingenious writer, to the solution of some phe- 
nomena in optics, which had before perplexed the greatest mas- 
ters in that science. The same observation is further improved 
by the judicious Dr. Smith, in his Optics, for explaining the 
apparent figure of the heavens, and the apparent distances and 
magnitudes of objects seen with glasses, or by the naked eye. 

Avoiding as much as possible the repetition of what hath been 
said by these excellent writers, we shall avail ourselves of the 
distinction between the signs that nature useth in this visual lan- 
guage, and the things signified by them ; and in what remains 
to be said of sight, shall first make some observations upon the 
signs. 

III. Of the visible appearances of objects. — In this section we 
must speak of things which are never made the object of reflec- 
tion, though almost every moment presented to the mind. 
Nature intended them only for signs ; and in the whole course 
of life they are put to no other use. The mind has acquired a 
confirmed and inveterate habit of inattention to them : for they 
no sooner appear, than quick as lightning the thing signified 
succeeds, and engrosses all our regard. They have no name in 
language; and although we are conscious of them when they 
pass through the mind, yet their passage is so quick, and so 
familiar, that it is absolutely unheeded ; nor do they leave any 
footsteps of themselves either in the memory or imagination. 
That this is the case with regard to the sensations of touch, hath 
been shown in the last chapter ; and it holds no less with regard 
to the visible appearances of objects. 



OF SEEING. 4(33 

I cannot, therefore, entertain the hope of being intelligible to 
those readers who have not, by pains and practice, acquired the 
habit of distinguishing the appearance of objects to the eye, from 
the judgment which we form by sight of their colour, distance, 
magnitude, and figure. The only profession in life wherein it is 
necessary to make this distinction, is that of painting. The 
painter hath occasion for an abstraction, with regard to visible 
objects, somewhat similar to that which we here require ; and 
this indeed is the most difficult part of his art. For it is evident, 
that if he could fix in his imagination the visible appearance of 
objects, without confounding it with the things signified by that 
appearance, it would be as easy for him to paint from the life, 
and to give every figure its proper shading and relief, and its 
perspective proportions, as it is to paint from a copy. Perspec- 
tive, shading, giving relief, and colouring, are nothing else but 
copying the appearance which things make to the eye. We may 
therefore borrow some light on the subject of visible appearance 
from this art. 

SUF Let one look upon any familiar object, such as a book, at 
different distances and in different positions, is he not able to 
affirm, upon the testimony of his sight, that it is the same book, 
the same object, whether seen at the distance of one foot or of 
ten, whether in one position or another ; that the colour is the 
same, the dimensions the same, and the figure the same, as far 
as the eye can judge ? This surely must be acknowledged. The 
same individual object is presented to the mind, only placed at 
different distances, and in different positions. Let me ask, in 
the next place, whether this object has the same appearance to 
the eye in these different distances ? Infallibly it hath not. For, 

First. However certain our judgment may be that the colour 
is the same, it is as certain that it hath not the same appear- 
ance at different distances. There is a certain degradation of 
the colour, and a certain confusion and indistinctness of the 
minute parts, which is the natural consequence of the removal 
of the object to a greater distance. Those that are not paint- 
ers, or critics in painting, overlook this ; and cannot easily be 
persuaded that the colour of the same object hath a different 
appearance at the distance of one foot and of ten, in the shade 
and in the light. But the masters in painting know how, by 
the degradation of the colour, and the confusion of the minute 
parts, figures, which are upon the same canvass, and at the same 
distance from the eye, may be made to represent objects which 
are at the most unequal distances. They know how to make the 
objects appear to be of the same colour, by making their pic- 
tures really of different colours according to their distances or 
shades. 

Secondly. Every one who is acquainted with the rules of per- 



4(34 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

spective knows, that the appearance of the figure of the book 
must vary in every different position ; yet if you ask a man that 
has no notion of perspective, whether the figure of it does not 
appear to his eye to be the same in all its different positions, 
he can, with a good conscience, affirm that it does. He hath 
learned to make allowance for the variety of visible figure arising 
from the difference of position, and to draw the proper conclu- 
sions from it. But he draws these conclusions so readily and 
habitually, as to lose sight of the premises ; and therefore, where 
he hath made the same conclusion, he conceives the visible ap- 
pearance must have been the same. 

Thirdly. Let us consider the apparent magnitude or dimen- 
sions of the book. Whether I view it at the distance of one 
foot or of ten feet, it seems to be about seven inches long, five 
broad, and one thick. I can judge of these dimensions very 
nearly by the eye, and I judge them to be the same at both dis- 
tances. But yet it is certain, that at the distance of one foot its 
visible length and breadth is about ten times as great as at the 
distance of ten feet ; and consequently its surface is about a 
hundred times as great. This great change of apparent magni- 
tude is altogether overlooked, and every man is apt to imagine, 
that it appears to the eye of the same size at both distances. 
Further, when I look at the book, it seems plainly to have three 
dimensions, of length, breadth, and thickness ; but it is certain 
that the visible appearance hath no more than two, and can be 
exactly represented upon a canvass which hath only length and 
breadth. 

In the last place, does not every man, by sight, perceive the 
distance of the book from his eye ? Can he not affirm with cer- 
tainty, that in one case it is not above one foot distant, that in 
another it is ten ? Nevertheless, it appears certain, that distance 
from the eye is no immediate object of sight. There are certain 
things in the visible appearance which are signs of distance from 
the eye, and from which, as we shall afterwards show, we learn 
by experience to judge of that distance within certain limits ; 
but it seems beyond doubt, that a man born blind, and suddenly 
made to see, could form no judgment at first of the distance of 
the objects which he saw. The young man couched by Che- 
selden thought, at first, that every thing he saw touched his eye, 
and learned only by experience to judge of the distance of visi- 
ble objects. 

[1 have entered into this long detail, in order to show, that 
the visible appearance of an object is extremely different from 
the notion of it which experience teaches us to form by sight; 
and to enable the reader to attend to the visible appearance of 
colour, figure, and extension in visible things, which is no com- 
mon object of thought, but must be carefully attended to by 



OF SEEING. 4g5 

those who would enter into the philosophy of this sense, or would 
comprehend what shall be said upon it.] gSF To a man newly 
made to see, the visible appearance of objects would be the same 
as to us ; but he would see nothing at all of their real dimen- 
sions, as we do. He could form no conjecture, by means of his 
sight only, how many inches or feet they were in length, breadth, 
or thickness. He could perceive little or nothing of their real 
figure ; nor could he discern, that this was a cube, that a sphere ; 
that this was a cone, and that a cylinder. His eye could not in- 
form him, that this object was near, and that more remote. The 
habit of a man or of a woman, which appeared to us of one 
uniform colour, variously folded and shaded, would present to 
his eye neither fold nor shade, but variety of colour. In a word, 
his eyes, though ever so perfect, would at first give him almost 
no information of things without him. They would indeed pre- 
sent the same appearances to him as they do to us, and speak the 
same language ; but to him it is an unknown language, and there- 
fore he would attend only to the signs, without knowing the 
signification of them : whereas to us it is a language perfectly 
familiar; and therefore we take no notice of the signs, but 
attend only to the -things signified by them. 

IV. That colour is a quality of bodies, not a sensation of the 
mind. — [By colour, all men, who have not been tutored by modern 
philosophy, understand, not a sensation of the mind, which can 
have no existence when it is not perceived, but a quality or 
modification of bodies, which continues to be the same, whether it 
is seen or not.~\ The scarlet rose, which is before me, is still a 
scarlet rose when I shut my eyes, and was so at midnight, when 
no eye saw it. The colour remains, when the appearance ceases : 
it remains the same when the appearance changes. For when I 
view this scarlet rose through a pair of green spectacles, the ap- 
pearance is changed, but I do not conceive the colour of the 
rose changed. To a person in the jaundice, it has still another 
appearance ; but he is easily convinced, that the change is in his 
eye, and not in the colour of the object. Every different degree 
of light makes it have a different appearance, and total darkness 
takes away all appearance, but makes not the least change in the 
colour of the body. We may, by a variety of optical experi- 
ments, change the appearance of figure and magnitude in a body, 
as well as that of colour ; we may make one body appear to be 
ten. But all men believe, that as a multiplying glass does not 
really produce ten guineas out of one, nor a microscope turn a 
guinea into a ten pound piece ; so neither does a coloured glass 
change the real colour of the object seen through it, when it 
changes the appearance of that colour. 

The common language of mankind shows evidently, that we 
ought to distinguish between the colour of a body> which is con- 

2 H 



4GG 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

ceived to be a fixed and permanent quality in the body, and the 
appearance of that colour to the eye, which may be varied a thou- 
sand ways, by a variation of the light, of the medium, of the eye 
itself. The permanent colour of the body is the cause, which, 
by the mediation of various kinds or degrees of light, and of 
various transparent bodies interposed, produces all this variety of 
appearances. When a coloured body is presented, there is a 
certain apparition to the eye, or to the mind, which we have 
called the appearance of colour. Mr. Locke calls it an idea ; 
and indeed it may be called so with the greatest propriety. This 
idea can have no existence but when it is perceived. It is a kind 
of thought, and can only be the act of a percipient or thinking 
being. By the constitution of our nature, we are led to conceive 
this idea as a sign of something external, and are impatient till we 
learn its meaning. Bgjf A thousand experiments for this purpose 
are made every day by children, even before they come to the 
use of reason. They look at things, they handle them, they put 
them in various positions, at different distances, and in different 
lights. The ideas of sight, by these means, come to be asso- 
ciated with, and readily to suggest, things external, and alto- 
gether unlike them. In particular, that idea which we have 
called the appearance of colour, suggests the conception and be- 
lief of some unknown quality in the body, which occasions the 
idea ; and it is to this quality, and not to the idea, that we give 
the name of colour. The various colours, although in their na- 
ture equally unknown, are easily distinguished when we think 
or speak of them, by being associated with the ideas which they 
excite. In like manner, gravity, magnetism, and electricity, 
although all unknown qualities, are distinguished by their diffe- 
rent effects. As we grow up, the mind acquires a habit of pass- 
ing so rapidly from the ideas of sight to the external things sug- 
gested by them, that the ideas are not in the least attended to, 
nor have they names given them in common language. 

When we think or speak of any particular colour, however 
simple the notion may seem to be which is presented to the 
imagination, it is really in some sort compounded. It involves an 
unknown cause, and a known effect. The name of colour be- 
longs indeed to the cause only, and not to the effect. But as 
the cause is unknown, we can form no distinct conception of it, 
but by its relation to the known effect. And therefore both go 
together in the imagination, and are so closely united, that they 
are mistaken for one simple object of thought. When I would 
conceive those colours of bodies which we call scarlet and blue ; 
if I conceived them only as unknown qualities, I could perceive 
no distinction between the one and the other. I must, there- 
fore, for the sake of distinction, join to each of them in my ima- 
gination some effect or some relation that is peculiar. And the 



OF SEEING. 4Q7 

most obvious distinction is, the appearance which one and the 
other makes to the eye. [Hence the appearance is, in the ima- 
gination, so closely united with the quality called a scarlet colour, 
that they are apt to he mistaken for one and the same thing, 
although they are in reality so different and so unlike, that one 
is an idea in the mind, the other is a quality of body.~\ 

[I conclude, then, that colour is not a sensation, but a secon- 
dary quality of bodies, in the sense we have already explained ; 
that it is a certain power or virtue in bodies, that in fair daylight 
exhibits to the eye an appearance which is very familiar to us, 
although it hath no name.] Colour differs from other secondary 
qualities in this, that whereas the name of the quality is some- 
times given to the sensation which indicates it, and is occasioned 
by it, we never, as far as I can judge, give the name of colour to 
the sensation, but to the quality only. Perhaps the reason of 
this may be, that the appearances of the same colour are so va- 
rious, and changeable, according to the different modifications of 
the light, of the medium, and of the eye, that language could 
not afford names for them. And, indeed, they are so little inte- 
resting, that they are never attended to, but serve only as signs 
to introduce the things signified by them. Nor ought it to ap- 
pear incredible, that appearances so frequent and so familiar 
should have no names, nor be made objects of thought; since 
we have before shown, that this is true of many sensations of 
touch, w T hich are no less frequent, nor less familiar. 

V. First inference from the preceding. — From what hath been 
said about colour, we may infer two things. The first is, that 
one of the most remarkable paradoxes of modern philosophy, 
which hath been universally esteemed as a great discovery, is, in 
reality, when examined to the bottom, nothing else but an abuse 
of words. The paradox I mean is, that colour is not a quality of 
bodies, but only an idea in the mind. We have shown, that the 
word colour, as used by the vulgar, cannot signify an idea in the 
mind, but a permanent quality of body. We have shown, that 
there is really a permanent quality of body, to which the com- 
mon use of this word exactly agrees. Can any stronger proof 
be desired, that this quality is that to which the vulgar give the 
name of colour ? If it should be said, that this quality to which 
we give the name of colour, is unknown to the vulgar, and there- 
fore can have no name among them ; I answer, it is indeed known, 
only by its effects ; that is, by its exciting a certain idea in us : 
but are there not numberless qualities of bodies which are known 
only by their effects, to which, notwithstanding, we find it ne- 
cessary to give names ? Medicine alone might furnish us with 
a hundred instances of this kind. Do not the words astringent, 
narcotic, epispastic, caustic, and innumerable others, signify 
qualities of bodies which are known only by their effects upon 

2h2 



468 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

animal bodies ? Why, then, should not the vulgar give a name to 
a quality whose effects are every moment perceived by their eyes ? 
We have all the reason, therefore, that the nature of the thing 
admits, to think that the vulgar apply the name of colour to that 
quality of bodies which excites in us what the philosophers call 
the idea of colour. And that there is such a quality in bodies, 
all philosophers allow, who allow that there is any such thing as 
body. Philosophers have thought fit to leave that quality of 
bodies which the vulgar call colour without a name, and to give 
the name of colour to the idea or appearance, to which, as we 
have shown, the vulgar give no name, because they never make 
it an object of thought or reflection. [Hence it appears, that 
when philosophers affirm that colour is not in bodies, but in the 
mind, and the vulgar affirm, that colour is not in the mind, but 
is a quality of bodies, there is no difference between them about 
things, but only about the meaning of a word.~\ 

The vulgar have undoubted right to give names to things 
which they are daily conversant about ; and philosophers seem 
justly chargeable with an abuse of language, when they change 
the meaning of a common word without giving warning. 

If it is a good rule to think with philosophers and speak with 
the vulgar, it must be right to speak with the vulgar when we 
think with them, and not to shock them by philosophical para- 
doxes, which, when put into common language, express only the 
common sense of mankind. 

If you ask a man that is no philosopher, what colour is ? or, 
what makes one body appear white, another scarlet ? he cannot 
tell. He leaves that inquiry to philosophers, and can embrace 
any hypothesis about it, except that of our modern philosophers, 
who affirm, that colour is not in body, but only in the mind. 

Nothing appears more shocking to his apprehension, than that 
visible objects should have no colour, and that colour should be 
in that which he conceives to be invisible. Yet this strange 
paradox is not only universally received, but considered as one 
of the noblest discoveries of modern philosophy e The ingenious 
Mr. Addison, in the " Spectator," No. 413, speaks thus of it. 
" I have here supposed that my reader is acquainted with that 
great modern discovery, which is at present universally acknow- 
ledged by all the inquirers into natural philosophy, namely, that 
light and colours, as apprehended by the imagination, are only 
ideas in the mind, and not qualities that have any existence in 
matter. As this is a truth which has been proved incontestably 
by many modern philosophers, and is indeed one of the finest 
speculations in that science, if the English reader would see the 
notion explained at large, he may find it in the eighth chapter 
of the second book of Mr. Locke's * Essay on Human Under- 
standing.' " 



OF SEEING. 4@9 

Mr. Locke and Mr. Addison are writers who have deserved so 
well of mankind, that one must feel some uneasiness in differing 
from them, and would wish to ascribe all the merit that is due 
to a discovery upon which they put so high a value. And indeed 
it is just to acknowledge, that Mr. Locke, and other modern 
philosophers, on the subject of secondary qualities, have the 
merit of distinguishing more accurately than those that went 
before them, between the sensation in the mind, and that consti- 
tution or quality of bodies which gives occasion to the sensation. 
They have shown clearly, that these two things are not only dis- 
tinct, but altogether unlike : that there is no similitude between 
the effluvia of an odorous body, and the sensation of smell which 
they occasion ; nor between the vibrations of a sounding body, 
and the sensation of sound: that there can be no resemblance 
between the feeling of heat, and the constitution of the heated 
body which occasions it ; nor between the appearance which a 
coloured body makes to the eye, and the texture of the body 
which causes that appearance. 

Nor was the merit small of distinguishing these things accu- 
rately ; because, however different and unlike in their nature, 
they have been always so associated in the imagination, as to 
coalesce as it were into one two-faced form, which, from its 
amphibious nature, could not justly be appropriated either to 
body or mind ; and until it was properly distinguished into its 
different constituent parts, it was impossible to assign to either 
their just shares in it. None of the ancient philosophers had 
made this distinction. The followers of Democritus and Epi- 
curus conceived the forms of heat, and sound, and colour, to be 
in the mind only, but that our senses fallaciously represented 
them as being in bodies. The Peripatetics imagined, that those 
forms were really in bodies ;. and that the images of them were 
conveyed to the mind by our senses. 

The one system made the senses naturally fallacious and 
deceitful ; the other made the qualities of body to resemble the 
sensations of the mind. Nor was it possible to find a third, 
without making the distinction we have mentioned; by which 
indeed the errors of both these ancient systems are avoided, and 
we are not left under the hard necessity of believing, either, on 
the one hand, that our sensations are like to the qualities of 
body, or, on the other, that God hath given us one faculty to 
deceive us, and another to detect the cheat. 

We desire, therefore, with pleasure, to do justice to the doc- 
trine of Mr. Locke, and other modern philosophers, with regard 
to colour, and other secondary qualities, and to ascribe to it its 
due merit, while we beg leave to censure the language in which 
they have expressed their doctrine. When they had explained 
and established the distinction between the appearance which 



470 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

colour makes to the eye, and the modification of the coloured 
body, which, by the laws of nature, causes that appearance ; the 
question was, whether to give the name of colour to the cause, 
or to the effect? By giving it, as they have done, to the effect, 
they set philosophy apparently in opposition to common sense, 
and expose it to the ridicule of the vulgar. But had they given 
the name of colour to the cause, as they ought to have done, they 
must then have affirmed, with the vulgar, that colour is a quality 
of bodies ; and that there is neither colour, nor any thing like it, 
in the mind. Their language, as well as their sentiments, would 
have been perfectly agreeable to the common apprehensions 
of mankind, and true philosophy would have joined hands with 
common sense. As Mr. Locke was no enemy to common sense, 
it may be presumed that in this instance, as in some others, he 
was seduced by some received hypothesis : and that this was 
actually the case, will appear in the following section. 

VI. Second. That none of our sensations are resemblances of 
any of the qualities of bodies. — A second inference is, that 
although colour is really a quality of body, yet it is not repre- 
sented to the mind by an idea or sensation that resembles it ; on 
the contrary, it is suggested by an idea which does not in the least 
resemble it. And this inference is applicable, not to colour only, 
but to all the qualities of body which we have examined. 

It deserves to be remarked, that in the analysis we have 
hitherto given of the operations of the five senses, and of the 
qualities of bodies discovered by them, no instance hath occurred, 
either of any sensation which resembles any quality of body, or 
of any quality of body whose image or resemblance is conveyed 
to the mind by means of the senses. 

There is no phenomenon in nature more unaccountable, than 
the intercourse that is carried on between the mind and the 
external material world : there is no phenomenon which philoso- 
phical spirits have shown greater avidity to pry into, and to 
resolve. It is agreed by all, that this intercourse is carried on 
by means of the senses : and this satisfies the vulgar curiosity, 
but not the philosophic. Philosophers must have some system, 
some hypothesis, that shows the manner in which our senses 
make us acquainted with external things. All the fertility of 
human invention seems to have produced only one hypothesis for 
this purpose ; which therefore hath been universally received ; 
and that is, that the mind, like a mirror, receives the images of 
things from without, by means of the senses ; so that their use 
must be to convey these images into the mind. 

^ Whether to these images of external things in the mind we 
give the name of sensible forms, or sensible species, with the 
Peripatetics, or the name of ideas of sensation, with Mr. Locke ; 
or whether, with later philosophers, we distinguish sensatiom, 



OF SEEING. 4/7I 

which are immediately conveyed by the senses, from ideas of 
sensation, which are faint copies of our sensations retained in the 
memory and imagination ; these are only differences about words. 
The hypothesis I have mentioned is common to all these different 
systems. 

The necessary and allowed consequence of this hypothesis is, 
that no material thing, nor any quality of material things, can be 
conceived by us, or made an object of thought, until its image is 
conveyed to the mind by means of the senses. We shall exa- 
mine this hypothesis particularly afterwards, and at this time 
only observe, that in consequence of it one would naturally ex- 
pect, that to every quality and attribute of body we know or can 
conceive, there should be a sensation corresponding, which is the 
image and resemblance of that quality ; and that the sensations 
which have no similitude or resemblance to body, or to any of 
its qualities, should give us no conception of a material world, or 
of any thing belonging to it. These things might be expected 
as the natural consequences of the hypothesis we have mentioned. 

Now, we have considered, in this and the preceding chapters, 
extension, figure, solidity, motion, hardness, roughness, as well 
as colour, heat and cold, sound, taste, and smell. We have 
endeavoured to show, that our nature and constitution lead us to 
conceive these as qualities of body, as all mankind have always 
conceived them to be. We have likewise examined, with great 
attention, the various sensations we have by means of the five 
senses, and are not able to find among them all one single image 
of body, or of any of its qualities. From whence then come those 
images of body and of its qualities into the mind ? Let philoso- 
phers resolve this question. All I can say is, that they come not 
by the senses. I am sure, that by proper attention and care I 
may know my sensations, and be able to affirm with certainty 
what they resemble, and what they do not resemble. I have 
examined them one by one, and compared them with matter and 
its qualities; and I cannot find one of them that confesses a 
resembling feature. 

A truth so evident as this, that our sensations are not images 
of matter, or of any of its qualities, ought not to yield to an 
hypothesis such as that above mentioned, however ancient, or 
however universally received by philosophers ; nor can there be 
any amicable union between the two. This will appear by some 
reflections upon the spirit of the ancient and modern philosophy 
concerning sensation. 

[During the reign of the Peripatetic philosophy, our sensations 
were not minutely or accurately examined. The attention of 
philosophers, as well as of the vulgar, was turned to the things 
signified by them : therefore, in consequence of the common 
hypothesis, it was taken for granted, that all the sensations we 



47g OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

have from external things, were the forms or images of these 
external things. And thus the truth we have mentioned, yielded 
entirely to the hypothesis, and was altogether suppressed by it.] 

Des Cartes gave a noble example of turning our attention 
inward, and scrutinizing our sensations ; and this example hath 
been very worthily followed by modern philosophers, particularly 
by Malebranche, Locke, Berkeley, and Hume. [The effect of 
this scrutiny hath been, a gradual discovery of the truth above 
mentioned, to wit, the dissimilitude between the sensations of 
our minds and the qualities or attributes of an insentient, inert 
substance, such as we conceive matter to be.] But this valuable 
and useful discovery, in its different stages, hath still been un- 
happily united to the ancient hypothesis : and from this inauspi- 
cious match of opinions, so unfriendly and discordant in their 
natures, have arisen those monsters of paradox and scepticism 
with which the modern philosophy is too justly chargeable. 

Mr. Locke saw clearly, and proved incontestably, that the 
sensations we have by taste, smell, and hearing, as well as the 
sensations of colour, heat, and cold, are not resemblances of any 
thing in bodies ; and in this he agrees with Des Cartes and 
Malebranche. Joining this opinion with the hypothesis, it fol- 
lows necessarily, that three senses of the five are cut off from 
giving us any intelligence of the material world, as being alto- 
gether inept for that office. Smell, and taste, and sound, as well 
as colour and heat, can have no more relation to body, than anger 
or gratitude ; nor ought the former to be called qualities of body, 
whether primary or secondary, any more than the latter. For it 
was natural and obvious to argue thus from that hypothesis : if 
heat, and colour, and sound, are real qualities of body, the sen- 
sations by which we perceive them, must be resemblances of 
those qualities : but these sensations are not resemblances ; there- 
fore those are not real qualities of body. 

We see, then, that Mr. Locke having found, that the ideas of 
secondary qualities are no resemblances, was compelled, by an 
hypothesis common to all philosophers, to deny that they are real 
qualities of body. It is more difficult to assign a reason, why, 
after this, he should call them secondary qualities; for this name, 
if I mistake not, was of his invention. Surely he did not mean 
that they were secondary qualities of the mind ; and I do not 
see with what propriety, or even by what tolerable license, he 
could call them secondary qualities of body, after finding that 
they were no qualities of body at all. In this, Mr. Locke seems 
to have sacrificed to common sense, and to have been led by her 
authority even in opposition to his hypothesis. The sanfe sove- 
reign mistress of our opinions that led Mr. Locke to call those 
things secondary qualities of body, which, according to his prin- 
ciples and reasonings, were no qualities of body at all, hath led, 



OF SEEING. 473 

not the vulgar of all ages only, but philosophers also, and even 
the disciples of Mr. Locke, to believe them to be real qualities 
of body : she hath led them to investigate, by experiments, the 
nature of colour, and sound, and heat, in bodies. Nor hath this 
investigation been fruitless, as it must have been, if there had 
been no such thing in bodies : on the contrary, it hath produced 
very noble and useful discoveries, which make a very consider- 
able part of natural philosophy. If then natural philosophy be 
not a dream, there is something in bodies which we call colour, 
and heat, and sound. And if this be so, the hypothesis from 
which the contrary is concluded, must be false : for the argu- 
ment, leading to a false conclusion, recoils against the hypothesis 
from which it was drawn, and thus directs its force backward. 
If the qualities of body were known to us only by sensations 
that resemble them, then colour, and sound, and heat, could be 
no qualities of body : but these are real qualities of body ; and 
therefore the qualities of body are not known only by means of 
sensations that resemble them. 

But to proceed : what Mr. Locke had proved with regard to 
the sensations we have by smell, taste, and hearing, Bishop 
Berkeley proved no less unanswerably with regard to all our 
other sensations ; to wit, that none of them can in the least 
resemble the qualities of a lifeless and insentient being, such as 
matter is conceived to be. Mr. Hume hath confirmed this by 
his authority and reasoning. This opinion surely looks with a 
very malign aspect upon the old hypothesis ; yet that hypothesis 
hath still been retained, and conjoined with it. And what a 
brood of monsters hath this produced ! 

The first-born of this union, and perhaps the most harmless, 
was, that the secondary qualities of body were mere sensations 
of the mind. To pass by Malebranche's notion of seeing all 
things in the ideas of the Divine Mind, as a foreigner never na- 
turalized in this island ; the next was Berkeley's system, That 
extension, and figure, and hardness, and motion ; that land, and 
sea, and houses, and our own bodies, as well as those of our 
wives, and children, and friends, are nothing but ideas in the 
mind ; and that there is nothing existing in nature but minds 
and ideas. 

The progeny that followed is still more frightful ; so that it is 
surprising that one could be found who had the courage to act 
the midwife, to rear it up, and to usher it into the world. No 
causes nor effects ; no substances, material or spiritual ; no evi- 
dence even in mathematical demonstration ; no liberty nor active 
power ; no tiling existing in nature, but impressions and ideas, 
following each other, without time, place, or subject. Surely 
110 age ever produced such a system of opinions, justly deduced 
with great acuteness, perspicuity, and elegance, from a principle 



474 0F THE HU MAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

universally received. The hypothesis we have mentioned is the 
father of them all. The dissimilitude of our sensations and feel- 
ings to external things is the innocent mother of most of them. 

As it happens sometimes in an arithmetical operation, that 
two errors balance one another, so that the conclusion is little 
or nothing affected by them ; but when one of them is corrected, 
and the other left, we are led further from the truth than by 
both together ; so it seems to have happened in the Peripatetic 
philosophy of sensation, compared with the modern. The Peri- 
patetics adopted two errors, but the last served as a corrective to 
the first, and rendered it mild and gentle ; so that their system 
had no tendency to scepticism. The moderns have retained the 
first of those errors, but have gradually detected and corrected 
the last. The consequence hath been, that the light we have 
struck out hath created darkness, and scepticism hath advanced 
hand in hand with knowledge, spreading its melancholy gloom, 
first over the material world, and at last over the whole face of 
nature. Such a phenomenon as this is apt to stagger even the 
lovers of light and knowledge, while its cause is latent; but 
when that is detected, it may give hopes that this darkness shall 
not be everlasting, but that it shall be succeeded by a more per- 
manent light. 

VII. Of visible figure and extension. — Although there is no 
resemblance, nor, as far as we know, any necessary connexion, 
between that quality in a body which we call its colour, and the 
appearance which that colour makes to the eye ; it is quite other- 
wise with regard to its figure and magnitude. There is cer- 
tainly a resemblance, and a necessary connexion between the 
visible figure and magnitude of a body, and its real figure and 
magnitude. No man can give a reason why a scarlet colour af- 
fects the eye in the manner it does : no man can be sure that it 
affects his eye in the same manner as it affects the eye of another, 
and that it has the same appearance to him as it has to another 
man : but we can assign a reason why a circle placed obliquely 
to the eye should appear in the form of an ellipse. The visible 
figure, magnitude, and position, may, by mathematical reasoning, 
be deduced from the real ; and it may be demonstrated that every 
eye that sees distinctly and perfectly must, in the same situa- 
tion, see it under this form, and no other. Nay, we may ven- 
ture to affirm, that a man born blind, if he were instructed 
in mathematics, would be able to determine the visible figure 
of a body, when its real figure, distance, and position, are given. 
Dr. Saunderson understood the projection of a sphere, and per- 
spective. Now, I require no more knowledge in a blind man, 
in order to his being able to determine the visible figure of bodies, 
than that he can project the outline of a given body, upon the 
surface of a hollow sphere, whose centre is in the e} r e. This pro- 



OF SEEING. 475 

jection is the visible figure he wants ; for it is the same figure 
with that which is projected upon the tunica retina in vision. 

A blind man can conceive lines drawn from every point of the 
object to the centre of the eye, making angles. He can conceive 
that the length of the object will appear greater or less, in pro- 
portion to the angle which it subtends at the eye ; and that, in 
like manner, the breadth, and in general the distance of any one 
point of the object from any other point, will appear greater or 
less, in proportion to the angles which those distances subtend. 
He can easily be made to conceive that the visible appearance has 
no thickness, any more than a projection of the sphere, or a per- 
fect draught. He may be informed that the eye, until it is 
aided by experience, does not represent one object as nearer or 
more remote than another. Indeed, he would probably conjec- 
ture this of himself, and be apt to think that the rays of light 
must make the same impression upon the eye, whether they 
come from a greater or a less distance. 

These are all the principles which we suppose our blind ma- 
thematician to have ; and these he may certainly acquire by in- 
formation and reflection. It is no less certain that from these 
principles, having given the real figure and magnitude of a body, 
and its position and distance with regard to the eye, he can find 
out its visible figure and magnitude. He can demonstrate in 
general, from these principles, that the visible figure of all 
bodies will be the same with that of their projection upon the 
surface of a hollow sphere, when the eye is placed in the centre. 
And he can demonstrate that their visible magnitude will be 
greater or less, according as their projection occupies a greater 
or less part of the surface of this sphere. 

To set this matter in another light, let us distinguish betwixt 
the position of objects with regard to the eye, and their distance 
from it. Objects that lie in the same right line drawn from the 
centre of the eye, have the same position, however different their 
distances from the eye may be : but objects which lie in differ- 
ent right lines drawn from the eye's centre, have a different po- 
sition ; and this difference of position is greater or less in propor- 
tion to the angle made at the eye by the right lines mentioned. 
Having thus defined what we mean by the position of objects 
with regard to the eye, it is evident that as the real figure of a 
body consists in the situation of its several parts with regard to 
one another, so its visible figure consists in the position of its se- 
veral parts with regard to the eye ; and as he that hath a distinct 
conception of the situation of the parts of the body with regard 
to one another, must have a distinct conception of its real figure ; 
so he that conceives distinctly the position of its several parts 
with regard to the eye, must have a distinct conception of its 
visible figure. Now, there is nothing surely to hinder a blind 



476 0F TIIE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

man from conceiving the position of the several parts of a- body 
with regard to the eye, any more than to conceive their situation 
with regard to one another ; and therefore I conclude that a blind 
man may attain a distinct conception of the visible figure of bodies. 

Although we think the arguments that have been offered are 
sufficient to prove that a blind man may conceive the visible ex- 
tension and figure of bodies ; yet, in order to remove some pre- 
judices against this truth, it will be of use to compare the notion 
which a blind mathematician might form to himself of visible 
figure, with that which is presented to the eye in vision, and to 
observe wherein they differ. 

[First. Visible figure is never presented to the eye but in con- 
junction with colour : and although there be no connexion be- 
tween them frGm the nature of the things, yet having so invari- 
ably kept company together, we are hardly able to disjoin them 
even in our imagination.] What mightily increases this diffi- 
culty is, that we have never been accustomed to make visible 
figure an object of thought. It is only used as a sign, and hav- 
ing served this purpose, passes aw T ay, without leaving a trace 
behind. The drawer or designer, whose business it is to hunt 
this fugitive form, and to take a copy of it, finds how difficult 
his task is, after many years' labour and practice. Happy ! if 
at last he can acquire the art of arresting it in his imagination, 
until he can delineate it. For then it is evident that he must be 
able to draw as accurately from the life as from a copy. But 
how few of the professed masters of designing are ever able to 
arrive at this degree of perfection ? It is no wonder, then, that 
we should find so great difficulty in conceiving this form apart 
from its constant associate, when it is so difficult to conceive it 
at all. But our blind man's notion of visible figure will not be 
associated with colour, of which he hath no conception : but it 
will perhaps be associated with hardness or smoothness, with 
which he is acquainted by touch. These different associations 
are apt to impose upon us, and to make things seem different, 
which in reality are the same. 

[Secondly, .The blind man forms the notion of visible Jig ure to 
himself, by thought, and by mathematical reasoning from prin- 
ciples ; whereas the man that sees, has it presented to his eye at 
once, without any labour, without any reasoning, by a kind of in- 
spiration.] A man may form to himself the notion of a parabola, 
or a cycloid, from the mathematical definition of those figures, 
although he had never seen them drawn or delineated. Another, 
who knows nothing of the mathematical definition of the figures, 
may see them delineated on paper, or feel them cut out in wood. 
Each may have a distinct conception of the figures, one by mathe- 
matical reasoning, the other by sense. Now, the blind man forms 
his notion of visible figure in the same manner as the first of 



OF SEEING. 4~7 

these formed his notion of a parabola or a cycloid, which he 
never saw. 

[Tliirdly, Visible figure leads the man that sees, directly to the 
conception of the real figure, of which it is a sign. But the 
blind man's thoughts move in a contrary direction. For he 
must first know the real figure, distance, and situation, of the 
body, and from thence he slowly traces out the visible figure by 
mathematical reasoning. Nor does his nature lead him to con- 
ceive this visible figure as a sign; it is a creature of his own 
reason and imagination.] 

VIII. Some queries concerning visible figure answered. — It 
may be asked, What kind of thing is this visible figure ? Is it 
a sensation, or an idea ? If it is an idea, from what sensation is 
it copied ? These questions may seem trivial or impertinent to 
one who does not know, that there is a tribunal of inquisition 
erected by certain modern philosophers, before which every 
thing in nature must answer. The articles of inquisition are 
few indeed, but very dreadful in their consequences. They are 
only these : is the prisoner an impression, or an idea ? If an 
idea, from what impression copied ? Now, if it appears that the 
prisoner is neither an impression, nor an idea copied from some 
impression, immediately, without being allowed to offer any thing 
in arrest of judgment, he is sentenced to pass out of existence, 
and to be, in all time to come, an empty unmeaning sound, or 
the ghost of a departed entity. 

Before this dreadful tribunal, cause and effect, time and place, 
matter and spirit, have been tried and cast : how then shall such 
a poor flimsy form as visible figure stand before it ? It must 
even plead guilty, and confess that it is neither an impression, 
nor an idea. For, alas ! it is notorious, that it is extended in 
length and breadth ; it may be long or short, broad or narrow, 
triangular, quadrangular, or circular : and therefore unless ideas 
and impressions are extended and figured, it cannot belong to 
that category. 

If it should still be asked, To what category of beings does 
visible figure then belong ? I can only in answer give some 
tokens, by which those who are better acquainted with the cate- 
gories, may chance to find its place. [It is, as we have said, the 
position of the several parts of a figured body, with regard to the 
eye.] The different positions of the several parts of the body, 
with regard to the eye, when put together, make a real figrue, 
which is truly extended in length and breadth, and which repre- 
sents a figure that is extended in length, breadth, and thickness. 
In like manner, a projection of the sphere is a real figure, and 
hath length and breadth, but represents the sphere, which hath 
three dimensions. A projection of the sphere, or a perspective 
view of a palace, is a representative in the very same sense as 



478 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

visible figure is, and wherever they have their lodgings in the 
categories, this will be found to dwell next door to them. 

It may further be asked, Whether there be any sensation pro- 
per to visible figure, by which it is suggested in vision ? Or by 
what means it is presented to the mind ? This is a question of 
some importance, in order to our having a distinct notion of the 
faculty of seeing : and to give all the light to it we can, it is 
necessary to compare this sense with other senses, and to make 
some suppositions, by which we may be enabled to distinguish 
things that are apt to be confounded, although they are totally 
different. 

There are three of our senses which give us intelligence of 
things at a distance ; smell, hearing, and sight. In smelling, 
and in hearing, we have a sensation or impression upon the mind, 
which, by our constitution, we conceive to be a sign of something 
external : but the position of this external thing, with regard 
to the organ of sense, is not presented to the mind along with 
the sensation. |®§F When I hear the sound of a coach, I could 
not, previous to experience, determine whether the sounding 
body was above or below, to the right hand or to the left. So 
that the sensation suggests to me some external object as the 
cause or occasion of it ; but it suggests not the position of that 
object, whether it lies in this direction or in that. The same 
thing *nay be said with regard to smelling. But the case is quite 
different with regard to seeing. When I see an object, the 
appearance which the colour of it makes, may be called the sen- 
sation, which suggests to me some external thing as its cause ; 
but it suggests likewise the individual direction and position of 
this cause with regard to the eye. I know it is precisely in such 
a direction, and in no other. At the same time I am not con- 
scious of any thing that can be called sensation, but the sensation 
of colour. The position of the coloured thing is no sensation, 
but it is by the laws of my constitution presented to the mind 
along with the colour, without any additional sensation. 

Let us suppose, that the eye were so constituted, that the rays 
coming from any one point of the object w r ere not, as they are 
in our eyes, collected in one point of the retina, but diffused over 
the whole : it is evident to those who understand the structure 
of the eye, that such an eye as we have supposed, would show 
the colour of a body as our eyes do, but that it would neither 
show figure nor position. The operation of such an eye would 
be precisely similar to that of hearing and smell ; it would give 
no perception of figure or extension, but merely of colour. 
Nor is the supposition we have made altogether imaginary : for 
it is nearly the case of most people who have cataracts, whose 
crystalline, as Mr. Cheselden observes, does not altogether exclude 
the rays of light, but diffuses them over the retina, so that such 



OF SEEING. 479 

persons see things as one does through a glass of broken jelly : 
they perceive the colour, but nothing of the figure or magnitude 
of objects. 

Again, if we should suppose, that smell and sound were con- 
veyed in right lines from the objects, and that every sensation of 
hearing and smell suggested the precise direction or position of 
its object ; in this case the operations of hearing and smelling 
would be similar to that of seeing ; we should smell and hear 
the figure of objects, in the same sense as now we see ; and every 
smell and sound would be associated with some figure in the 
imagination, as colour is in our present state. 

We have reason to believe, that the rays of light make some 
impression upon the retina ; but we are not conscious of this 
impression ; nor have anatomists or philosophers been able to 
discover the nature and effects of it ; whether it produces a vibra- 
tion in the nerve, or the motion of some subtile fluid contained 
in the nerve, or something different from either, to which we 
cannot give a name. Whatever it is, we shall call it the material 
impression ; remembering carefully, that it is not an impression 
upon the mind, but upon the body ; and that it is no sensation, 
nor can resemble sensation, any more than figure or motion can 
resemble thought. Now, this material impression, made upon a 
particular point of the retina, by the laws of our constitution 
suggests two things to the mind, namely, the colour, and the 
position of some external object. No man can give a reason, 
why the same material impression might not have suggested 
sound, or smell, or any of these along with the position of the 
object. That it should suggest colour and position, and nothing 
else, we can resolve only into our constitution, or the will of our 
Maker. And since there is no necessary connexion between 
these two things suggested by this material impression, it might, 
if it had so pleased our Creator, have suggested one of them with- 
out the other. Let us suppose, therefore, since it plainly appears 
to be possible, that our eyes had been so framed, as to suggest 
to us the position of the object, without suggesting colour, or 
any other quaKty. What is the consequence of this supposition ? 
It is evidently this, that the person endued with such an eye, 
would perceive the visible figure of bodies, without having any 
sensation or impression made upon his mind. The figure he 
perceives is altogether external ; and therefore cannot be called 
an impression upon the mind, without the grossest abuse of lan- 
guage. If it should be said, that it is impossible to perceive a 
figure, unless there be some impression of it upon the mind ; I 
beg leave not to admit the impossibility of this without some 
proof ; and I can find none. [Neither can I conceive what is 
meant by an impression of figure upon the mind. I can conceive 
an impression of figure upon wax, or upon any body that is fit to 



480 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

receive it ; but an impression of it upon the mind is to me quite 
unintelligible ; and although I form the most distinct conception 
of the figure, I cannot, upon the strictest examination, find any 
impression of it upon my mind.] 

If we suppose, last of all, that the eye hath the power restored 
of perceiving colour, I apprehend that it will be allowed, that now 
it perceives figure in the very same manner as before, with this 
difference only, that colour is always joined with it. 

[In answer therefore to the question proposed, there seems to 
be no sensation that is appropriated to visible figure, or whose 
office it is to suggest it. It seems to be suggested immediately 
by the material impression Upon the organ, of which we are not 
conscious :] and why may not a material impression upon the 
retina suggest visible figure, as well as the material impression 
made upon the hand, when we grasp a ball, suggests real figure ? 
One and the same material impression, in one case, suggests both 
colour and visible figure ; and in the other case, one and the 
same material impression suggests hardness, heat, or cold, and 
real figure, all at the same time. 

We shall conclude this section with another question upon 
this subject. Since the visible figure of bodies is a real and 
external object to the eye, as their tangible figure is to the touch ; 
it may be asked, whence arises the difficulty of attending to the 
first, and the facility of attending to the last?* It is certain that 
the first is more frequently presented to the eye, than the last is 
to the touch ; the first is as distinct and determinate an object as 
the last, and seems in its own nature as proper for speculation. 
Yet so little hath it been attended to, that it never had a name 
in any language, until Bishop Berkeley gave it that which we 
have used after his example, to distinguish it from the figure 
which is the object of touch. 

The difficulty of attending to the visible figure of bodies, and 
making it an object of thought, appears so similar to that which 
we find in attending to our sensations, that both have probably 
like causes. Nature intended the visible figure as a sign of the 
tangible figure and situation of bodies, and hath taught us by a 
kind of instinct to put it always to this use. Hence it happens, 
that the mind passes over it with a rapid motion, to attend to the 
things signified by it. It is as unnatural to the mind to stop at 
the visible figure, and attend to it, as it is to a spherical body to 
stop upon an inclined plane. There is an inward principle, which 
constantly carries it forward, and which cannot be overcome but 
by a contrary force. 

There are other external things which nature intended for 
signs ; and we find this common to them all, that the mind is 
disposed to overlook them, and to attend only to the things sig- 

* Vide p. 481. 



OF SEEING. 4gl 

nified by them. Thus there are certain modifications of the 
human face, which are natural signs of the present disposition of 
the mind. Every man understands the meaning of these signs, 
but not one of a hundred ever attended to the signs themselves, 
or knows any thing about them. Hence you may find many an 
excellent practical physiognomist, who knows nothing of the 
proportions of a face, nor can delineate or describe the expression 
of any one passion. 

EHF An excellent painter or statuary can tell, not only what 
are the proportions of a good face, but what changes every pas- 
sion makes in it. This, however, is one of the chief mysteries 
of his art, to the acquisition of which, infinite labour and atten- 
tion, as well as a happy genius, are required. But when he puts 
his art in practice, and happily expresses a passion by its proper 
signs, every one understands the meaning of these signs, without 
art, and without reflection. 

What has been said of painting, might easily be applied to all 
the fine arts. The difficulty in them all consists in knowing and 
attending to those natural signs, whereof every man understands 
the meaning. 

[We ^ass from the sign to the thing signified, with ease and by 
natural impulse ; but to go backward from the thing signified to 
the sign, is a work of labour and difficulty. So visible figure 
being intended by nature to be a sign, we pass on immediately 
to the thing signified, and cannot easily return to give any atten- 
tion to the sign.] 

Nothing shows more clearly our indisposition to attend to 
visible figure and visible extension than this, that although ma- 
thematical reasoning is no less applicable to them than to tangi- 
ble figure and extension, yet they have entirely escaped the 
notice of mathematicians. While that figure and that extension 
which are objects of touch, have been tortured ten thousand ways 
for twenty centuries, and a very noble system of science drawn 
out of them; not a single proposition do we find with regard 
to the figure and extension which are the immediate objects of 
sight ! 

When the geometrician draws a diagram with the most perfect 
accuracy ; when he keeps his eye fixed upon it, while he goes 
through a long process of reasoning, and demonstrates the rela- 
tions of the several parts of his figure ; he does not consider that 
the visible figure presented to his eye, is only the representative 
of a tangible figure, upon which all his attention is fixed ; he 
does not consider that these two figures have really different 
properties ; and that what he demonstrates to be true of the one, 
is not true of the other. 

This perhaps will seem so great a paradox, even to mathema- 
ticians, as to require demonstration before it can be believed. 

2i 



432 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

Nor is the demonstration at all difficult, if the reader will have 
patience to enter but a little into the mathematical considera- 
tion of visible figure, which we shall call the geometry of 



IX. Of the geometry of visibles. — In this geometry, the defi- 
nitions of a point ; of a line, whether straight or curve ; of an 
angle, whether acute, or right, or obtuse ; and of a circle, are the 
same as in common geometry. The mathematical reader will 
easily enter into the whole mystery of this geometry, if he 
attends duly to these few evident principles. 

1 . Supposing the eye placed in the centre of a sphere, every 
great circle of the sphere will have the same appearance to the 
eye as if it was a straight line. For the curvature of the circle 
being turned directly toward the eye, is not perceived by it. And 
for the same reason, any line which is drawn in the plane of a 
great circle of the sphere, whether it be in reality straight or 
curve, will appear straight to the eye. 

2. Every visible right line will appear to coincide with some 
great circle of the sphere ; and the circumference of that great 
circle, even when it is produced, until it returns into itself, will 
appear to be a continuation of the same visible right line, all the 
parts of it being visibly in directum. For the eye, perceiving 
only the position of objects with regard to itself, and not their 
distance, will see those points in the same visible place which 
have the same position with regard to the eye, how different 
soever their distances from it may be. Now, since a plane passing 
through the eye and a given visible right line, will be the plane 
of some great circle of the sphere, every point of the visible right 
line will have the same position as some point of the great circle ; 
therefore they will both have the same visible place, and coincide 
to the eye; and the whole circumference of the great circle 
continued even until it returns into itself, will appear to be a 
continuation of the same visible right line. 

Hence it follows, 

3. That every visible right line, when it is continued in direc- 
tum, as far as it may be continued, will be represented by a 
great circle of a sphere, in whose centre the eye is placed. It 
follows, 

4. That the visible angle comprehended under two visible 
right lines, is equal to the spherical angle comprehended under 
the two great circles which are the representatives of these visible 
lines. For since the visible lines appear to coincide with the 
great circles, the visible angle comprehended under the former, 
must be equal to the visible angle comprehended under the 
latter. But the visible angle comprehended under the two great 
circles, when seen from the centre, is of the same magnitude 
with the spherical angle which they really comprehend, as 



OF SEEING. 4gg 

mathematicians know ; therefore the visible angle made by any 
two visible lines, is equal to the spherical angle made by the two 
great circles of the sphere which are their representatives. 

5. Hence it is evident, that every visible right-lined triangle 
will coincide in all its parts with some spherical triangle. The 
sides of the one will appear equal to the sides of the other, and 
the angles of the one to the angles of the other, each to each ; 
and therefore the whole of the one triangle will appear equal to 
the whole of the other. In a word, to the eye they will be one 
and the same, and have the same mathematical properties. The 
properties therefore of visible right-lined triangles, are not the 
same with the properties of plain triangles, but are the same 
with those of spherical triangles. 

6. Every lesser circle of the sphere, will appear a circle to the 
eye placed, as we have supposed all along, in the centre of the 
sphere. And, on the other hand, every visible circle will appear 
to coincide with some lesser circle of the sphere. 

7. Moreover, the whole surface of the sphere will represent 
the whole of visible space : for since every visible point coincides 
with some point of the surface of the sphere, and has the same 
visible place, it follows, that all the parts of the spherical surface 
taken together, will represent all possible visible places, that is, 
the whole of visible space. And from this it follows, in the last 
place, 

8. That every visible figure will be represented by that part 
of the surface of the sphere, on which it might be projected, the 
eye being in the centre. And every such visible figure will bear 
the same ratio to the whole of visible space, as the part of the 
spherical surface which represents it, bears to the whole spherical 
surface. 

The mathematical reader, I hope, will enter into these princi- 
ples with perfect facility, and will as easily perceive, that the 
following propositions with regard to visible figure and space, 
which we offer only as a specimen, may be mathematically 
demonstrated from them, and are not less true nor less evident 
than the propositions of Euclid, with regard to tangible figures. 

Prop. 1. Every right line being produced, will at last return 
into itself. 

2. A right line returning into itself, is the longest possible 
right line ; and all other right lines bear a finite ratio to it. 

3. A right line returning into itself, divides the whole of visi- 
ble space into two equal parts, which will both be comprehended 
under this right line. 

4. The whole of visible space bears a finite ratio to any part 
of it. 

5. Any two right lines being produced, will meet in two 
points, and mutually bisect each other. 

2i2 



484 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

6. If two lines be parallel, that is, every where equally distant 
from each other, they cannot both be straight. 

7. Any right line being given, a point may be found, which 
is at the same distance from all the points of the given right 
line. 

8. A circle may be parallel to a right line, that is, may be 
equally distant from it in all its parts. 

9. Right-lined triangles that are similar, are also equal. 

10. Of every right-lined triangle, the three angles taken toge- 
ther, are greater than two right angles. 

1 1 . The angles of a right-lined triangle may all be right angles, 
or all obtuse angles. 

12. Unequal circles are not as the squares of their diameters, 
nor are their circumferences, in the ratio of their diameters. 

This small specimen of the geometry of visibles is intended to 
lead the reader to a clear and distinct conception of the figure 
and extension which is presented to the mind by vision ; and to 
demonstrate the truth of what we have affirmed above, namely, 
That those figures and that extension which are the immediate 
objects of sight, are not the figures and the extension about which 
common geometry is employed ; that the geometrician, while he 
looks at his diagram, and demonstrates a proposition, hath a 
figure presented to his eye, which is only a sign and representa- 
tive of a tangible figure ; that he gives not the least attention to 
the first, but attends only to the last ; and that these two figures 
have different properties, so that what he demonstrates of the 
one, is not true of the other. 

It deserves, however, to be remarked, that as a small part of a 
spherical surface differs not sensibly from a plain surface ; so a 
small part of visible extension differs very little from that exten- 
sion in length and breadth, which is the object of touch. And it 
is likewise to be observed, that the human eye is so formed, that 
an object which is seen distinctly and at one view, can occupy but 
a small part of visible space : for we never see distinctly what is 
at a considerable distance from the axis of the eye ; and there- 
fore, when we would see a large object at one view, the eye must 
be at so great distance, that the object occupies but a small part 
of visible space. From these two observations it follows, that 
plain figures which are seen at one view, when their planes are 
not oblique, but direct to the eye, differ little from the visible 
figures which they present to the eye. The several lines in the 
tangible figure, have very nearly the same proportion to each 
other as in the visible ; and the angles of the one are very nearly, 
although not strictly and mathematically, equal to those of the 
other. Although, therefore, we have found many instances of 
natural signs which have no similitude to the things signified, 
this is not the case with regard to visible figure. It hath in all 



OF SEEING. 4g^ 

cases such a similitude to the thing signified by it, as a plan or 
profile hath to that which it represents ; and in some cases the 
sign and thing signified have to all sense the same figure and the 
same proportions. If we could find a being endued with sight 
only, without any other external sense, and capable of reflecting 
and reasoning upon what he sees, the notions and philosophical 
speculations of such a being, might assist us in the difficult task 
of distinguishing the perceptions which we have purely by sight, 
from those which derive their origin from other senses. Let us 
suppose such a being, and conceive, as well as we can, what 
notion he would have of visible objects, and what conclusions he 
would deduce from them. We must not conceive him disposed 
by his constitution, as we are, to consider the visible appearance 
as a sign of something else : it is no sign to him, because there is 
nothing signified by it ; and therefore we must suppose him as 
much disposed to attend to the visible figure and extension of 
bodies, as we are disposed to attend to their tangible figure and 
extension. 

If various figures were presented to his sense, he might with- 
out doubt, as they grow familiar, compare them together, and 
perceive wherein they agree, and wherein they differ. He might 
perceive visible objects to have length and breadth, but could 
have no notion of a third dimension, any more than we can have 
of a fourth. All visible objects would appear to be terminated 
by lines, straight or curve ; and objects terminated by the same 
visible lines, would occupy the same place, and fill the same part 
of visible space. It would not be possible for him to conceive 
one object to be behind another, or one to be nearer, another 
more distant. 

To us, who conceive three dimensions, a line may be conceived 
straight; or it may be conceived incurvated in one dimension, 
and straight in another ; or, lastly, it may be incurvated in two 
dimensions. Suppose a line to be drawn upwards and down- 
wards, its length makes one dimension, which we shall call 
upwards and downwards ; and there are two dimensions remain- 
ing, according to which it may be straight or curve. It may be 
bent to the right or to the left ; and if it has no bending either 
to right or left, it is straight in this dimension. But supposing 
it straight in this dimension of right and left, there is still another 
dimension remaining, in which it may be curve ; for it may be 
bent backwards or forwards. When we conceive a tangible 
straight line, we exclude curvature in either of these two dimen- 
sions : and as what is conceived to be excluded, must be con- 
ceived, as well as what is conceived to be included, it follows, 
that all the three dimensions enter into our conception of a 
straight line. Its length is one dimension, its straightness in two 



486 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

other dimensions is included, or curvature in these two dimen- 
sions excluded, in the conception of it. 

The being we have supposed, having no conception of more 
than two dimensions, of which the length of a line is one, cannot 
possibly conceive it either straight or curve in more than one 
dimension : so that in his conception of a right line, curvature 
to the right hand or left is excluded ; but curvature backwards 
or forwards cannot be excluded, because he hath not, nor can 
have any conception of such curvature. Hence we see the rea- 
son that a line which is straight to the eye, may return into 
itself : for its being straight to the eye, implies only straightness 
in one dimension ; and a line which is straight in one dimension, 
may notwithstanding be curve in another dimension, and so may 
return into itself. 

To us, who conceive three dimensions, a surface is that which 
hath length and breadth, excluding thickness : and a surface 
may be either plain in this third dimension, or it may be incur- 
vated : so that the notion of a third dimension enters into our 
conception of a surface ; for it is only by means of this third 
dimension that we can distinguish surfaces into plain and curve 
surfaces ; and neither one nor the other can be conceived with- 
out conceiving a third dimension. 

The being we have supposed having no conception of a third 
dimension, his visible figures have length and breadth indeed; 
but thickness is neither included nor excluded, being a thing of 
which he has no conception. And therefore visible figures, 
although they have length and breadth, as surfaces have, yet 
they are neither plain surfaces, nor curve surfaces. Eor a curve 
surface implies curvature in a third dimension, and a plain sur- 
face implies the want of curvature in a third dimension ; and 
such a being can conceive neither of these, because he has no 
conception of a third dimension. Moreover, although he hath a 
distinct conception of the inclination of two lines which makes an 
angle, yet he can neither conceive a plain angle nor a spherical 
angle. Even his notion of a point is somewhat less determined 
than ours. In the notion of a point we exclude length, breadth, 
and thickness ; he excludes length and breadth, but cannot 
either exclude or include thickness, because he hath no concep- 
tion of it. 

Having thus settled the notions which such a being as we have 
supposed might form of mathematical points, lines, angles, and 
figures, it is easy to see, that by comparing these together, and 
reasoning about them, he might discover their relations, and form 
geometrical conclusions built upon self-evident principles. He 
might likewise without "doubt have the same notions of numbers 
as we have, and form a system of arithmetic. It is not material 



OF SEEING. 4g7 

to say in what order he might proceed in such discoveries, or 
how much time and pains he might employ about them ; but 
what such a being, by reason and ingenuity, without any mate- 
rials of sensation but those of sight only, might discover. 

As it is more difficult to attend to a detail of possibilities, than 
of facts even of slender authority, I shall beg leave to give an 
extract from the travels of Johannes Rudolphus Anepigraphus, 
a Rosicrucian philosopher, who having by deep study of the 
occult sciences, acquired the art of transporting himself to various 
sublunary regions, and of conversing with various orders of intel- 
ligences, in the course of his adventures became acquainted with 
an order of beings exactly such as I have supposed. 

How they communicate their sentiments to one another, and 
by what means he became acquainted with their language, and 
was initiated into their philosophy, as well as of many other par- 
ticulars, which might have gratified the curiosity of his readers, 
and perhaps added credibility to his relation, he hath not thought 
fit to inform us ; these being matters proper for adepts only to 
know. 

His account of their philosophy is as follows. 

" The Idomenians," saith he, " are many of them very inge- 
nious, and much given to contemplation. In arithmetic, geo- 
metry, metaphysics, and physics, they have most elaborate 
systems. In the two latter indeed they have had many disputes 
carried on with great subtilty, and are divided into various sects ; 
yet in the two former there hath been no less unanimity than 
among the human species. Their principles relating to numbers 
and arithmetic, making allowance for their notation, differ in no- 
thing from ours : but their geometry differs very considerably." 

As our author's account of the geometry of the Idomenians 
agrees in every thing with the geometry of visibles, of which we 
have already given a specimen, we shall pass over it. He goes on 
thus : " Colour, extension, and figure, are conceived to be the 
essential properties of body. A very considerable sect maintains, 
that colour is the essence of body. If there had been no colour, 
say they, there had been no perception or sensation. Colour is 
all that we perceive, or can conceive, that is peculiar to body ; 
extension and figure being modes common to body and to empty 
space. And if we should suppose a body to be annihilated, co- 
lour is the only thing in it that can be annihilated ; for its place, 
and consequently the figure and extension of that place must 
remain, and cannot be imagined not to exist. These philoso- 
phers hold space to be the place of all bodies, immoveable and 
indestructible, without figure, and similar in all its parts, inca- 
pable of increase or diminution, yet not unmeasurable : for every 
the least part of space bears a finite ratio to the whole. So that 
with them the whole extent of space is the common and natural 



488 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

measure of every thing that hath length and breadth, and the 
magnitude of every body and of every figure is expressed by its 
being such a part of the universe. In like manner, the common 
and natural measure of length is an infinite right line, which, as 
hath been before observed, returns into itself, and hath no limits, 
but bears a finite ratio to every other line. 

" As to their natural philosophy, it is now acknowledged by 
the wisest of them to have been for many ages in a very low 
state. The philosophers observing, that one body can differ from 
another only in colour, figure, or magnitude, it was taken for 
granted, that all their particular qualities must arise from the 
various combinations of these their essential attributes. And 
therefore it was looked upon as the end of natural philosophy, 
to show how the various combinations of these three qualities 
in different bodies produced all the phenomena of nature. It 
were endless to enumerate the various systems that were invented 
with this view, and the disputes that were carried on for ages ; 
the followers of every system exposing the weak sides of other 
systems, and palliating those of their own with great art. 

" At last, some free and facetious spirits, wearied with eternal 
disputation, and the labour of patching and propping weak sys- 
tems, began to complain of the subtilty of nature ; of the infi- 
nite changes that bodies undergo in figure, colour, and magni- 
tude ; and of the difficulty of accounting for these appearances, 
making this a pretence for giving up all inquiries into the 
causes of things, as vain and fruitless. 

" These wits had ample matter of mirth and ridicule in the 
systems of philosophers, and finding it an easier task to pull 
down than to build or support, and that every sect furnished 
them with arms and auxiliaries to destroy another, they began 
to spread mightily, and went on with great success. Thus philo- 
sophy gave way to scepticism and irony, and those systems which 
had been the work of ages, and the admiration of the learned, 
became the jest of the vulgar : for even the vulgar readily took 
part in the triumph over a kind of learning which they had long 
suspected, because it produced nothing but wrangling and alter- 
cation. The wits having now acquired great reputation, and 
being flushed with success, began to think their triumph incom- 
plete, until every pretence to knowledge was overturned ; and 
accordingly began their attacks upon arithmetic, geometry, and 
even upon the common notions of untaught Idomenians. So 
difficult it hath always been (says our author) for great con- 
querors to know where to stop. 

" In the mean time, natural philosophy began to rise from its 
ashes, under the direction of a person of great genius, who is 
looked upon as having had something in him above Idomenian 
nature. He observed, that the Idomenian faculties were cer- 



OF SEEING. 4g9 

tainly intended for contemplation, and that the works of nature 
were a nobler subject to exercise them upon than the follies of 
systems or the errors of the learned ; and being sensible of the 
difficulty of finding out the causes of natural things, he pro- 
posed, by accurate observation of the phenomena of nature, to 
find out the rules according to which they happen, without in- 
quiring into the causes of those rules. In this he made con- 
siderable progress himself, and planned out much work for his 
followers, who call themselves inductive philosophers. The scep- 
tics look with envy upon this rising sect, as eclipsing their repu- 
tation, and threatening to limit their empire ; but they are at a 
loss on what hand to attack it. The vulgar begin to reverence 
it, as producing useful discoveries. 

" It is to be observed, that every Idomenian firmly believes, 
that two or more bodies may exist in the same place. For this 
they have the testimony of sense, and they can no more doubt of 
it, than they can doubt whether they have any perception at all. 
They often see two bodies meet, and coincide in the same place, 
and separate again, without having undergone any change in 
their sensible qualities by this penetration. When two bodies 
meet, and occupy the same place, commonly one only appears 
in that place, and the other disappears. That which continues 
to appear, is said to overcome, the other to be overcome." 

To this quality of bodies they give a name, which our author 
tells us hath no word answering to it in any human language. 
And therefore, after making a long apology, which I omit, he 
begs leave to call it the overcoming quality of bodies. He assures 
us, that " the speculations which had been raised about this single 
quality of bodies, and the hypotheses contrived to account for it, 
were sufficient to fill many volumes. Nor have there been fewer 
hypotheses invented by their philosophers, to account for the 
changes of magnitude and figure ; which, in most bodies that 
move, they perceive to be in a continual fluctuation. The founder 
of the inductive sect, believing it to be above the reach of Ido- 
menian faculties, to discover the real causes of these phenomena, 
applied himself to find from observation, by what laws they are 
connected together ; and discovered many mathematical ratios 
and relations concerning the motions, magnitudes, figures, and 
overcoming quality of bodies, which constant experience con- 
firms. But the opposers of this sect choose rather to content 
themselves with feigned causes of these phenomena, than to ac- 
knowledge the real laws whereby they are governed, which hum- 
ble their pride, by being confessedly unaccountable." 

Thus far Johannes Rudolphus Anepigraphus. Whether this 
Anepigraphus be the same who is recorded among the Greek 
alchemistical writers not yet published, by Borrichius, Fabri- 
cius, and others, I do not pretend to determine. The identity 



490 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

of their name, and the similitude of their studies, although no 
slight arguments, yet are not absolutely conclusive. Nor will I 
take upon me to judge of the narrative of this learned traveller 
by the external marks of his credibility ; I shall confine myself 
to those which the critics call internal. It would even be of 
small importance to inquire, whether the Idomenians have a real, 
or only an ideal existence ; since this is disputed among the 
learned with regard to things with which we are more nearly con- 
nected. The important question is, Whether the account above 
given is a just account of their geometry and philosophy ? We 
have all the faculties which they have, with the addition of others 
which they have not : we may, therefore, form some judgment of 
their philosophy and geometry, by separating from all others, 
the perceptions, we have by sight, and reasoning upon them. 
As far as I am able to judge in this way after a careful exami- 
nation, their geometry must be such as Anepigraphus hath de- 
scribed. Nor does his account of their philosophy appear to 
contain any evident marks of imposture ; although here, no 
doubt, proper allowance is to be made for liberties which tra- 
vellers take, as well as for involuntary mistakes which they are 
apt to fall into. 

X. Of the parallel motion of the eyes. — Having explained as 
distinctly as we can visible figure, and shown its connexion with 
the things signified by it, it will be proper next to consider some 
phenomena of the eyes and of vision, which have commonly been 
referred to custom, to anatomical or to mechanical causes ; but 
which, as I conceive, must be resolved into original powers and 
principles of the human mind; and therefore belong properly to 
the subject of this inquiry. 

The first is, the parallel motion of the eyes, by which, when 
one eye is turned to the right or to the left, upwards or down- 
wards, or straight forwards, the other always goes along with it 
in the same direction. We see plainly, when both eyes are 
open, that they are always turned the same way, as if both were 
acted upon by the same motive force ; and if one eye is shut, 
and the hand laid upon it, while the other turns various ways, 
we feel the eye that is shut turn at the same time, and that 
whether we will or not. What makes this phenomenon sur- 
prising is, that it is acknowledged by all anatomists, that the 
muscles which move the two eyes, and the nerves which serve 
these muscles, are entirely distinct and unconnected. It would 
be thought very surprising and unaccountable, to see a man who, 
from his birth, never moved one arm without moving the other 
precisely in the same manner, so as to keep them always parallel : 
yet it would not be more difficult to find the physical cause of 
such a motion of the arms, than it is to find the cause of the 
parallel motion of the eyes, which is perfectly similar. 



OP SEEING. 491 

[The only cause that hath been assigned of this parallel mo- 
tion of the eyes, is custom. We find by experience, it is said, 
when we begin to look at objects, that in order to have distinct 
vision, it is necessary to turn both eyes the same way ; there- 
fore we soon acquire the habit of doing it constantly, and by 
degrees lose the power of doing otherwise.] 

This account of the matter seems to be insufficient ; because 
habits are not got at once ; it takes time to acquire and to con- 
firm them ; and if this motion of the eyes were got by habit, 
we should see children, when they are born, turn their eyes dif- 
ferent ways, and move one without the other, as they do their 
hands or legs. I know some have affirmed that they are apt to 
do so. But I have never found it true from my own observation, 
although I have taken pains to make observations of this kind, 
and have had good opportunities. I have likewise consulted ex- 
perienced midwives, mothers, and nurses, and found them agree, 
that they had never observed distortions of this kind in the eyes 
of children, but when they had reason to suspect convulsions, or 
some preternatural cause. 

[It seems, therefore, to be extremely probable, that, previous 
to custom, there is something in the constitution, some natural 
instinct, which directs us to move both eyes always the same 
way.] 

We know not how the mind acts upon the body, nor by what 
power the muscles are contracted and relaxed ; but we see, that 
in some of the voluntary, as well as in some of the involuntary 
motions, this power is so directed, that many muscles which 
have no material tie or connexion, act in concert, each of them 
being taught to play its part in exact time and measure. Nor 
doth a company of expert players in a theatrical performance, 
or of excellent musicians in a concert, or of good dancers in 
a country-dance, with more regularity and order, conspire and 
contribute their several parts, to produce one uniform effect, 
than a number of muscles do, in many of the animal functions, 
and in many voluntary actions. Yet we see such actions no less 
skilfully and regularly performed in children, and in those who 
know not that they have such muscles, than in the most skilful 
anatomist and physiologist. 

Who taught all the muscles that are concerned in sucking, in 
swallowing our food, in breathing, and in the several natural 
expulsions, to act their part in such regular order and exact 
measure ? It was not custom, surely. It was that same powerful 
and wise Being who made the fabric of the human body, and 
fixed the laws by which the mind operates upon every part of it, 
so that they may answer the purposes intended by them. And 
when we see, in so many other instances, a system of uncon- 
nected muscles conspiring so wonderfully in their several func- 



492 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

tions, without the aid of habit, it needs not be thought strange, 
that the muscles of the eyes should, without this aid, conspire 
to give that direction to the eyes, without which they could not 
answer their end. 

We see a like conspiring action in the muscles which contract 
the pupils of the two eyes ; and in those muscles, whatever they 
be, by which the conformation of the eyes is varied according to 
the distance of objects. 

[It ought, however, to be observed, that although it appears to 
be by natural instinct that both eyes are always turned the same 
way, there is still some latitude left for custom.] 

What we have said of the parallel motion of the eyes, is not 
to be understood so strictly as if nature directed us to keep their 
axes always precisely and mathematically parallel to each other. 
Indeed, although they are always nearly parallel, they hardly 
ever are exactly so. When we look at an object, the axes of the 
eyes meet in that object ; and therefore make an angle, which is 
always small, but will be greater or less, according as the object 
is nearer or more remote. Nature hath very wisely left us the 
power of varying the parallelism of our eyes a little, so that 
we can direct them to the same point, whether remote or near. 
This, no doubt, is learned by custom ; and accordingly we see, 
that it is a long time before children get this habit in perfection. 

This power of varying the parallelism of the eyes is naturally 
no more than is sufficient for the purpose intended by it, but by 
much practice and straining it may be increased. Accordingly 
we see, that some have acquired the power of distorting their 
eyes into unnatural directions, as others have acquired the power 
of distorting their bodies into unnatural postures. 

[Those who have lost the sight of an eye, commonly lose what 
they had got by custom, in the direction of their eyes, but retain 
what they had by nature ; that is, although their eyes turn and 
move always together ; yet, when they look upon an object, the 
blind eye will often have a very small deviation from it ;] which 
is not perceived by a slight observer, but may be discerned by 
one accustomed to make exact observations in these matters. 

XI. Of our seeing objects erect by inverted images. — Another 
phenomenon which hath perplexed philosophers, is our seeing 
objects erect, when it is well known that their images or pictures 
upon the tunica retina of the eye are inverted. 

The sagacious Kepler first made the noble discovery, that dis- 
tinct but inverted pictures of visible objects, are formed upon 
the retina by the rays of light coming from the object. The 
same great philosopher demonstrated, from the principles of 
optics, how these pictures are formed, to wit, that the rays 
coming from any one point of the object, and falling upon the 
various parts of the pupil, are, by the cornea and crystalline, 



OF SEEING. 493 

refracted so as to meet again in one point of the retina, and there 
paint the colour of that point of the object from which they 
come. As the rays from different points of the object cross each 
other before they come to the retina, the picture they form must 
be inverted ; the upper part of the object being painted upon 
the lower part of the retina, the right side of the object upon 
the left of the retina, and so of the other parts. 

[This philosopher thought that we see objects erect by means 
of these inverted pictures, for this reason, that as the rays from 
different points of the object cross each other, before they fall 
upon the retina, we conclude that the impulse which we feel 
upon the lower part of the retina, comes from above ; and that 
the impulse which we feel upon the higher part, comes from 
below.] 

Des Cartes afterwards gave the same solution of this pheno- 
menon, and illustrated it by the judgment which we form of the 
position of objects which we feel with our arms crossed, or with 
two sticks that cross each other. 

But we cannot acquiesce in this solution. First, Because it 
supposes our seeing things erect, to be a deduction of reason, 
drawn from certain premises ; whereas it seems to be an imme- 
diate perception. And, secondly, Because the premises from 
which all mankind are supposed to draw this conclusion, never 
entered into the minds of the far greater part, but are absolutely 
unknown to them. We have no feeling or perception of the 
pictures upon the retina, and as little surely of the position of 
them. In order to see objects erect, according to the principles 
of Kepler or Des Cartes, we must previously know, that the rays 
of light come from the object to the eye in straight lines ; we 
must know, that the rays from different points of the object cross 
one another, before they form the pictures upon the retina ; and 
lastly, we must know that these pictures are really inverted. 
Now, although all these things are true, and known to philoso- 
phers, yet they are absolutely unknown to the far greatest part 
of mankind : nor is it possible that they who are absolutely igno- 
rant of them, should reason from them, and build conclusions 
upon them. Since therefore visible objects appear erect to the 
ignorant as well as to the learned, this cannot be a conclusion 
drawn from premises which never entered into the minds of the 
ignorant. We have indeed had occasion to observe many in- 
stances of conclusions drawn, either by means of original prin- 
ciples, or by habit, from premises which pass through the mind 
very quickly, and which are never made the objects of reflection ; 
but surely no man will conceive it possible to draw conclusions 
from premises which never entered into the mind at all. 

Bishop Berkeley having justly rejected this solution, gives one 
founded upon his own principles ; wherein he is followed by the 



494 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

judicious Mr. Smith, in his " Optics ;" and this we shall next 
explain and examine. 

That ingenious writer conceives the ideas of sight to be alto- 
gether unlike those of touch. And since the notions we have of 
an object by these different senses have no similitude, we can 
learn only by experience how one sense will be affected, by what, 
in a certain manner, affects the other. Figure, position, and 
even number, in tangible objects, are ideas of touch ; and although 
there is no similitude between these and the ideas of sight, yet 
we learn by experience, that a triangle affects the sight in such 
a manner, and that a square affects it in such another manner : 
hence we judge that which affects it in the first manner, to be a 
triangle, and that which affects it in the second, to be a square. 
[In the same way, finding from experience, that an object in an 
erect position, affects the eye in one manner, and the same object 
in an inverted position, affects it in another, we learn to judge, 
by the manner in which the eye is affected, whether the object is 
erect or inverted.] In a word, visible ideas, according to this 
author, are signs of the tangible ; and the mind passeth from the 
sign to the thing signified, not by means of any similitude be- 
tween the one and the other, nor by any natural principle ; but 
by having found them constantly conjoined in experience, as the 
sounds of a language are with the things they signify. So that 
if the images upon the retina had been always erect, they would 
have shown the objects erect, in the same manner as they do 
now that they are inverted: nay, if the visible idea which we 
now have from an inverted object, had been associated from the 
beginning with the erect position of that object, it would have 
signified an erect position, as readily as it now signifies an in- 
verted one. And if the visible appearance of two shillings had 
been found connected from the beginning with the tangible idea 
of one shilling, that appearance would as naturally and readily 
have signified the unity of the object, as now it signifies its 
duplicity. 

This opinion is undoubtedly very ingenious ; and if it is just, 
serves to resolve, not only the phenomenon now under considera- 
tion, but likewise that which we shall next consider, our seeing 
objects single with tivo eyes. 

It is evident, that in this solution it is supposed, that we do 
not originally, and previous to acquired habits, see things either 
erect or inverted, of one figure or another, single or double, but 
learn from experience to judge of their tangible position, figure, 
and number, by certain visible signs. 

Indeed it must be acknowledged to be extremely difficult to 
distinguish the immediate and natural objects of sight, from the 
conclusions which we have been accustomed from infancy to 
draw from them. Bishop Berkeley was the first that attempted 



OF SEEING. 4,9^ 

to distinguish the one from the other, and to trace out the 
boundary that divides them. And if, in doing so, he hath gone 
a little to the right hand or to the left, this might be expected 
in a subject altogether new, and of the greatest subtilty. The 
nature of vision hath received great light from this distinction ; 
and many phenomena in optics, which before appeared altogether 
unaccountable, have been clearly and distinctly resolved by it. 
It is natural, and almost unavoidable, to one who hath made an 
important discovery in philosophy, to carry it a little beyond its 
sphere, and to apply* it to the resolution of phenomena which do 
not fall within its province. Even the great Newton, when he 
had discovered the universal law of gravitation, and observed how 
many of the phenomena of nature depend upon this, and other 
laws of attraction and repulsion, could not help expressing his 
conjecture, that all the phenomena of the material world depend 
upon attracting and repelling forces in the particles of matter. 
And I suspect that the ingenious Bishop of Cloyne having found 
so many phenomena of vision reducible to the constant associa- 
tion of the ideas of sight and touch, carried this principle a little 
beyond its just limits. 

In order to judge as well as we can, whether it is so, let us 
suppose such a blind man as Dr. Saunderson, having all the 
knowledge and abilities which a blind man may have, suddenly 
made to see perfectly. Let us suppose him kept from all oppor- 
tunities of associating his ideas of sight with those of touch, until 
the former become a little familiar ; and the first surprise occa- 
sioned by objects so new being abated, he has time to canvass 
them, and to compare them in his mind, with the notions which 
he formerly had by touch ; and in particular to compare in his 
mind that visible extension which his eyes present, with the 
extension in length and breadth with which he was before ac- 
quainted. 

We have endeavoured to prove, that a blind man may form a 
notion of the visible extension and figure of bodies, from the 
relation which it bears to their tangible extension and figure. 
Much more, when this visible extension and figure are presented 
to his eye, will he be able to compare them with tangible exten- 
sion and figure, and to perceive, that the one has length and 
breadth as well as the other ; that one may be bounded by lines, 
either straight or curve, as well as the other. And therefore 
he will perceive, that there may be visible, as well as tangible 
circles, triangles, quadrilateral and multilateral figures. And 
although the visible figure is coloured, and the tangible is not, 
they may, notwithstanding, have the same figure ; as two objects 
of touch may have the same figure, although one is hot and the 
other cold. 

We have shown above, that the properties of visible figures 



490 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

differ from those of the plain figures which they represent : but 
it was observed at the same time, that when the object is so small 
as to be seen distinctly at one view, and is placed directly before 
the eye, the difference between the visible and the tangible figure 
is too small to be perceived by the senses. Thus it is true, that 
of every visible triangle, the three angles are greater than two 
right angles ; whereas in a plain triangle, the three angles are 
equal to two right angles : but when the visible triangle is small, 
its three angles will be so nearly equal to two right angles, that 
the sense cannot discern the difference. In like manner, the 
circumferences of unequal visible circles are not, but those of 
plain circles are, in the ratio of their diameters ; yet in small 
visible circles, the circumferences are very nearly in the ratio of 
their diameters; and the diameter bears the same ratio to the 
circumference, as in a plain circle, very nearly. 

Hence it appears, that small visible figures (and such only can 
be seen distinctly at one view) have not only a resemblance to 
the plain tangible figures which have the same name, but are to 
all sense the same. So that if Dr. Saunderson had been made 
to see, and had attentively viewed the figures of the first book 
of Euclid, he might, by thought and consideration, without 
touching them, have found out that they were the very figures 
he was before so well acquainted with by touch. 

When plain figures are seen obliquely, their visible figure 
differs more from the tangible ; and the representation which is 
made to the eye, of solid figures, is still more imperfect ; because 
visible extension hath not three, but two dimensions only. Yet 
as it cannot be said that an exact picture of a man hath no 
resemblance of the man, or that a perspective view of a house 
hath no resemblance of the house ; so it cannot be said, with any 
propriety, that the visible figure of a man, or of a house, hath no 
resemblance of the objects which they represent. 

Bishop Berkeley therefore proceeds upon a capital mistake, in 
supposing that there is no resemblance betwixt the extension, 
figure, and position which we see, and that which we perceive 
by touch. 

We may further observe, that Bishop Berkeley's system with 
regard to material things, must have made him see this question, 
of the erect appearance of objects, in a very different light from 
that in which it appears to those who do not adopt his system. 

In his theory of vision, he seems indeed to allow, that there is 
an external material world : but he believed that this external 
world is tangible only, and not visible ; and that the visible world, 
the proper object of sight, is not external, but in the mind. If 
this is supposed, he that affirms that he sees things erect and not 
inverted, affirms that there is a top and a bottom, a right and a 
left in the mind. Now, I confess I am not so well acquainted 



OF SEEING. 497 

with the topography of the mind, as to be able to affix a mean- 
ing to these words when applied to it. 

We shall therefore allow, that if visible objects were not ex- 
ternal, but existed only in the mind, they could have no figure, 
or position, or extension ; and that it would be absurd to affirm, 
that they are seen either erect or inverted ; or that there is any 
resemblance between them and the objects of touch. But when 
we propose the question, Why objects are seen erect, and not 
inverted ? we take it for granted, that we are not in Bishop 
Berkeley's ideal world, but in that world which men who yield 
to the dictates of common sense believe themselves to inhabit. 
We take it for granted, that the objects both of sight and of 
touch are external, and have a certain figure, and a certain posi- 
tion with regard to one another, and with regard to our bodies, 
whether we perceive it or not. 

When I hold my walking-cane upright in my hand, and look 
at it, I take it for granted, that I see and handle the same indi- 
vidual object. When I say that I feel it erect, my meaning is, 
that I feel the head directed from the horizon, and the point 
directed towards it : and when I say that I see it erect, I mean 
that I see it with the head directed from the horizon, and the 
point towards it. I conceive the horizon as a fixed object both 
of sight and touch, with relation to which, objects are said to be 
high or low, erect or inverted : and when the question is asked, 
Why I see the object erect, and not inverted? it is the same as 
if you should ask, why I see it in that position which it really 
hath ? or why the eye shows the real position of objects, and 
doth not show them in an inverted position, as they are seen by 
a common astronomical telescope, or as their pictures are seen 
upon the retina of an eye when it is dissected ? 

XII. The same subject continued. — It is impossible to give a 
satisfactory answer to this question, otherwise than by pointing 
out the laws of nature which take place in vision ; for by these 
the phenomena of vision must be regulated. 

Therefore I answer, first, That, by a law of nature, the rays of 
light proceed from every point of the object to the pupil of the 
eye in straight lines. Secondly, That, by the laws of nature, the 
rays coming from any one point of the object to the various parts 
of the pupil, are so refracted, as to meet again in one point of 
the retina ; and the rays from different points of the object, first 
crossing each other, and then proceeding to as many different 
points of the retina, form an inverted picture of the object. 

[So far the principles of optics carry us ; and experience fur- 
ther assures us, that if there is no such picture upon the retina, 
there is no vision ; and that such as the picture on the retina 
is, such is the appearance of the object, in colour and figure, 
distinctness or indistinctness, brightness or faintness.] 

2 K 



498 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

It is evident, therefore, that the pictures upon the retina are, 
by the laws of nature, a mean of vision ; but in what way they 
accomplish their end, we are totally ignorant. Philosophers con- 
ceive that the impression made on the retina by the rays of light 
is communicated to the optic nerve, and by the optic nerve con- 
veyed to some part of the brain, by them called the sensorium ; 
and that the impression thus conveyed to the sensorium is imme- 
diately perceived by the mind, which is supposed to reside there. 
But we know nothing of the seat of the soul : and we are so far 
from perceiving immediately what is transacted in the brain, that 
of all parts of the human body we know least about it. It 
is indeed very probable that the optic nerve is an instrument of 
vision no less necessary than the retina ; and that some impres- 
sion is made upon it, by means of the pictures on the retina. 
But of what kind this impression is, we know nothing. 

There is not the least probability that there is any picture or 
image of the object either in the optic nerve or brain. The pic- 
tures on the retina are formed by the rays of light ; and whether 
we suppose, with some, that their impulse upon the retina 
causes some vibration of the fibres of the optic nerve ; or, with 
others, that it gives motion to some subtile fluid contained in 
the nerve ; neither that vibration, nor this motion, can resemble 
the visible object which is presented to the mind. [Nor is there 
any probability that the mind perceives the pictures upon the re- 
tina. These pictures are no more objects of our perception than 
the brain is, or the optic nerve. No man ever saw the pictures 
in his own eye, nor indeed the pictures in the eye of another, 
until it was taken out of the head, and duly prepared.] 

It is very strange that philosophers of all ages should have 
agreed in this notion, " That the images of external objects are 
conveyed by the organs of sense to the brain, and are there 
perceived by the mind." Nothing can be more unphilosophical. 
[For, first, This notion hath no foundation in fact and observa- 
tion.] Of all the organs of sense, the eye only, as far as we can 
discover, forms any kind of image of its object ; and the images 
formed by the eye are not in the brain, but only in the bottom 
of the eye ; nor are they at all perceived or felt by the mind. 
[Secondly, It is as difficult to conceive how the mind perceives 
images in the brain, as how it perceives things more distant.] If 
any man will show how the mind may perceive images in the 
brain, I will undertake to show how it may perceive the most 
distant objects : for if we give eyes to the mind, to perceive what 
is transacted at home in its dark chamber, why may we not 
make these eyes a little longer sighted ? and then we shall have 
no occasion for that unphilosophical fiction of images in the 
brain. In a word, the manner and mechanism of the mind's 
perception is quite beyond our comprehension : and this way of 



OF SEEING. 499 

explaining it by images in the brain, seems to be founded upon 
very gross notions of the mind and its operations ; as if the sup- 
posed images in the brain, by a kind of contact, formed similar 
impressions or images of objects upon the mind, of which im- 
pressions it is supposed to be conscious. 

We have endeavoured to show, throughout the course of this 
inquiry, that the impressions made upon the mind by means of 
the five senses, have not the least resemblance to the objects of 
sense: and therefore, as we see no shadow of evidence, that 
there are any such images in the brain, so we see no purpose, in 
philosophy, that the supposition of them can answer. Since the 
picture upon the retina, therefore, is neither itself seen by the 
mind, nor produces any impression upon the brain or sensorium, 
which is seen by the mind, nor makes any impression upon the 
mind that resembles the object, it may still be asked, How this 
picture upon the retina causes vision ? 

Before we answer this question, it is proper to observe, that 
in the operations of the mind, as well as in those of bodies, we 
must often be satisfied with knowing that certain things are con- 
nected, and invariably follow one another, without being able to 
discover the chain that goes between them. It is to such con- 
nexions that we give the name of laws of nature ; and when we 
say that one thing produces another by a law of nature, this sig- 
nifies no more, but that one thing, which we call in popular lan- 
guage the cause, is constantly and invariably followed by another, 
which we call the effect ; and that we know not how they are 
connected. Thus we see it is a fact, that bodies gravitate to- 
wards bodies ; and that this gravitation is regulated by certain 
mathematical proportions, according to the distances of the 
bodies from each other, and their quantities of matter. Being un- 
able to discover the cause of this gravitation, and presuming that 
it is the immediate operation, either of the Author of nature, or 
of some subordinate cause, which we have not hitherto been able 
to reach, we call it a law of nature. If any philosopher should 
hereafter be so happy as to discover the cause of gravitation, this 
can only be done by discovering some more general law of na- 
ture, of which the gravitation of bodies is a necessary consequence. 
In every chain of natural causes, the highest link is a primary 
law of nature ; and the highest link which we can trace, by just 
induction, is either this primary law of nature, or a necessary 
consequence of it. To trace out the laws of nature, by induc- 
tion, from the phenomena of nature, is all that true philosophy 
aims at, and all that it can ever reach. 

There are laws of nature, by which the operations of the mind 
are regulated ; there are also laws of nature that govern the ma- 
terial system : and as the latter are the ultimate conclusions 
which the human faculties can reach in the philosophy of bodies, 

2 k 2 



5QQ OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

so the former are the ultimate conclusions we can reach in the 
philosophy of minds. 

To return, therefore, to the question above proposed,* we 
may see, from what hath been just now observed, that it amounts 
to this : " By what law of nature is a picture upon the retina, the 
mean or occasion of my seeing an external object of the same 
figure and colour, in a contrary position, and in a certain direc- 
tion from the eye ?" 

It will, without doubt, be allowed, that I see the whole object 
in the same manner and by the same law by which I see any one 
point of it. Now, I know it to be a fact, that, in direct vision, 
I see every point of the object in the direction of the right line 
that passeth from the centre of the eye to that point of the ob- 
ject ; and I know, likewise, from optics, that the ray of light 
that comes to the centre of my eye, passes on to the retina in 
the same direction. Hence it appears to be a fact, that every 
point of the object is seen in the direction of a right line passing 
from the picture of that point on the retina through the centre 
of the eye. As this is a fact that holds universally and invariably, 
it must either be a law of nature, or the necessary consequence 
of some more general law of nature. And according to the just 
rules of philosophizing, we may hold it for a law of nature, until 
some more general law be discovered, whereof it is a necessary 
consequence, which I suspect can never be done. 

Thus we see, that the phenomena of vision lead us by the hand 
to a law of nature, or a law of our constitution, of which law our 
seeing objects erect by inverted images is a necessary conse- 
quence. For it necessarily follows, from the law we have men- 
tioned, that the object whose picture is lowest on the retina, 
must be seen in the highest direction from the eye ; and that 
the object whose picture is on the right of the retina, must be 
seen on the left ; so that if the pictures had been erect in the 
retina, we should have seen the object inverted. My chief inten- 
tion in handling this question, was to point out this law of na- 
ture ; which, as it is a part of the constitution of the human 
mind, belongs properly to the subject of this inquiry. For this 
reason I shall make some further remarks upon it, after doing 
justice to the ingenious Dr. Porterfield, who, long ago in the 
" Medical Essays," and more lately in his " Treatise of the Eye," 
pointed out, as a primary law of our nature, " That a visible ob- 
ject appears in the direction of a right line perpendicular to the 
retina at that point where its image is painted." If lines drawn 
from the centre of the eye to all parts of the retina be perpen- 
dicular to it, as they must be very nearly, this coincides with 
the law we have mentioned, and is the same in other words. In 

* Vide preceding page. 



OF SEEING. 5Q I 

order, therefore, that we may have a more distinct notion of this 
law of our constitution, we may observe, 

1 . That we can give no reason why the retina is, of all parts 
of the body, the only one on which pictures made by the rays of 
light cause vision : and therefore we must resolve this solely into 
a law of our constitution. We may form such pictures, by means 
of optical glasses, upon the hand, or upon any other part of the 
body ; but they are not felt, nor do they produce any thing like 
vision. A picture upon the retina is as little felt as one upon 
the hand ; but it produces vision ; for no other reason, that we 
know, but because it is destined by the wisdom of nature to this 
purpose. The vibrations of the air strike upon the eye, the 
palate, and the olfactory membrane, with the same force as upon 
the membrana tympani of the ear : the impression they make 
upon the last produces the sensation of sound ; but their im- 
pression upon any of the former produces no sensation at all. 
This may be extended to all the senses, whereof each hath its 
peculiar laws, according to which, the impressions made upon 
the organ of that sense produce sensations or perceptions in the 
mind that cannot be produced by impressions made upon any 
other organ. 

2. We may observe, that the laws of perception, by the dif- 
ferent senses, are very different, not only in respect of the na- 
ture of the objects perceived by them, but likewise in respect of 
the notices they give us of the distance and situation of the 
object. In all of them the object is conceived to be external, 
and to have real existence, independent of our perception : but 
in one, the distance, figure, and situation of the object, are all 
presented to the mind ; in another, the figure and situation, but 
not the distance ; and in others, neither figure, situation, nor 
distance. In vain do we attempt to account for these varieties 
in the manner of perception by the different senses, from princi- 
ples of anatomy or natural philosophy. They must at last be 
resolved into the will of our Maker, who intended that our 
powers of perception should have certain limits, and adapted 
the organs of perception, and the laws of nature by which they 
operate, to his wise purposes. 

When we hear an unusual sound, the sensation indeed is in 
the mind, but we know that there is something external that 
produced this sound. At the same time our hearing does not 
inform us, whether the sounding body is near or at a distance, 
in this direction or that : and therefore we look round to dis- 
cover it. 

If any new phenomenon appears in the heavens, we see 
exactly its colour, its apparent place, magnitude, and figure ; but 
we see not its distance. It may be in the atmosphere, it maybe 



502 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

among the planets, or it may be in the sphere of the fixed stars, 
for any thing the eye can determine. 

The testimony of the sense of touch reaches only to objects 
that are contiguous to the organ, but with regard to them is 
more precise and determinate. When we feel a body with our 
hand, we know the figure, distance, and position of it, as well as 
whether it is rough or smooth, hard or soft, hot or cold. 

The sensations of touch, of seeing, and hearing, are all in the 
mind, and can have no existence but when they are perceived. 
How do they all constantly and invariably suggest the conception 
and belief of external objects, which exist whether they are per- 
ceived or not ? No philosopher can give any other answer to 
this, but that such is the constitution of our nature. How do 
we know that the object of touch is at the finger's end, and no 
where else? that the object of sight is in such a direction from 
the eye, and in no other, but may be at any distance ? and that 
the object of hearing may be at any distance, and in any direc- 
tion ? Not by custom, surely ; not by reasoning, or comparing 
ideas ; but by the constitution of our nature. How do we per- 
ceive visible objects in the direction of right lines perpendicular 
to that part of the retina on which their rays strike, while we do 
not perceive the objects of hearing in lines perpendicular to the 
membrana tympani, upon which the vibrations of the air strike ? 
Because such are the laws of our nature. How do we know the 
parts of our bodies affected by particular pains ? Not by expe- 
rience or reasoning, but by the constitution of nature. The 
sensation of pain is, no doubt, in the mind, and cannot be said to 
have any relation from its own nature to any part of the body ; 
but this sensation, by our constitution, gives a perception of 
some particular part of the body, whose disorder causes the 
uneasy sensation. If it were not so, a man who never before 
felt either the gout or the tooth-ache, when he is first seized 
with the gout in his toe, might mistake it for the tooth-ache. 

Every sense, therefore, hath its peculiar laws and limits, by 
the constitution of our nature ; and one of the laws of sight is, 
that we always see an object in the direction of a right line pass- 
ing from its image on the retina through the centre of the eye. 

3. Perhaps some readers will imagine that it is easier, and will 
answer the purpose as well, to conceive a law of nature, by 
which we shall always see objects in the place in which they are, 
and in their true position, without having recourse to images on 
the retina, or to the optical centre of the eye. 

To this I answer, That nothing can be a law of nature which 
is contrary to fact. The laws of nature are the most general 
facts we can discover in the operations of nature. Like other 
facts, they are not to be hit upon by a happy conjecture, but 



OF SEEING. 503 

justly deduced from observation : like other general facts, they 
are not to be drawn from a few particulars, but from a copious, 
patient, and cautious induction. That we see things always in 
their true place and position, is not fact ; and therefore it can 
be no law of nature. In a plain mirror, I see myself, and other 
things, in places very different from those they really occupy. 
And so it happens in every instance, wherein the rays coming 
from the object are either reflected or refracted before falling 
upon the eye. Those who know any thing of optics, know that, 
in all such cases, the object is seen in the direction of a line 
passing from the centre of the eye to the point where the rays 
were last reflected or refracted ; and that upon this all the powers 
of the telescope and microscope depend. 

Shall we say, then, that it is a law of nature that the object is 
seen in the direction which the rays have when they fall on the 
eye, or rather in the direction contrary to that of the rays when 
they fall upon the eye ? No. This is not true ; and therefore it 
is no law of nature. For the rays, from any one point of the 
object, come to all parts of the pupil ; and therefore must have 
different directions : but we see the object only in one of these 
directions, to wit, in the direction of the rays that come to the 
centre of the eye. And this holds true, even when the rays 
that should pass through the centre are stopped, and the object 
is seen by rays that pass at a distance from the centre. 

Perhaps it may still be imagined, that although we are not 
made so as to see objects always in their true place, nor so as to 
see them precisely in the direction of the rays when they fall 
upon the cornea ; yet we may be so made as to see the object in 
the direction which the rays have when they fall upon the retina, 
after they have undergone all their refractions in the eye, that is, 
in the direction in which the rays pass from the crystalline to the 
retina. But neither is this true ; and consequently it is no law of 
our constitution. In order to see that it is not true, we must con- 
ceive all the rays that pass from the crystalline to one point of the 
retina, as forming a small cone, whose base is upon the back of 
the crystalline, and whose vertex is a point of the retina. It is 
evident that the rays which form the picture in this point, have 
various directions, even after they pass the crystalline ; yet the 
object is seen only in one of these directions, to wit, in the di- 
rection of the rays that come from the centre of the eye. Nor 
is this owing to any particular virtue in the central rays, or in the 
centre itself ; for the central rays may be stopped. When they 
are stopped, the image will be formed upon the same point of the 
retina as before, by rays that are not central, nor have the same 
direction which the central rays had : and in this case the object 
is seen in the same direction as before, although there are now 
no rays coming in that direction. 



504 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

From this induction we conclude, that our seeing an object in 
that particular direction in which we do see it, is not owing to 
any law of nature by which we are made to see it in the direction 
of the rays, either before their refractions in the eye, or after, 
but " to a law of our nature, by which we see the object in the 
direction of the right line that passe th from the picture of the 
object upon the retina to the centre of the eye." 

The facts upon which I ground this induction, are taken from 
some curious experiments of Schemer, in his "Fundament. Optic." 
quoted by Dr. Porterfield, and confirmed by his experience. I 
have also repeated these experiments, and found them to answer. 
As they are easily made, and tend to illustrate and confirm the 
law of nature I have mentioned, I shall recite them as briefly 
and distinctly as I can. 

Experiment 1. Let a very small object, such as the head of 
a pin, well illuminated, be fixed at such a distance from the eye, 
as to be beyond the nearest limit and within the farthest limit of 
distinct vision. For a young eye, not near-sighted, the object 
may be placed at the distance of eighteen inches. Let the eye 
be kept steadily in one place, and take a distinct view of the ob- 
ject. We know from the principles of optics, that the rays from 
any one point of this object, whether they pass through the centre 
of the eye, or at any distance from the centre which the breadth 
of the pupil will permit, do all unite again in one point of the 
retina. We know, also, that these rays have different directions, 
both before they fall upon the eye, and after they pass through 
the crystalline. 

Now we can see the object by any one small parcel of these 
rays, excluding the rest, by looking through a small pin-hole in 
a card. Moving this pin-hole over the various parts of the pupil, 
we can see the object, first by the rays that pass above the centre 
of the eye, then by the central rays, then by the rays that pass 
below the centre, and in like manner by the rays that pass on the 
right and left of the centre. Thus we view this object, succes- 
sively, by rays that are central, and by rays that are not central ; 
by rays that have different directions, and are variously inclined 
to each other, both when they fall upon the cornea, and when 
they fall upon the retina ; but always by rays which fall upon 
the same point of the retina. And what is the event ? It is this, 
that the object is seen in the same individual direction, whether 
seen by all these rays together, or by any one parcel of them. 

Experiment 2. Let the object above mentioned be now placed 
within the nearest limit of distinct vision, that is, for an eye 
that is not near-sighted, at the distance of four or five inches. 
We know that, in this case, the rays coming from one point of 
the object, do not meet in one point, of the retina, but spread over 
a small circular spot of it : the central rays occupying the centre 



OF SEEING, 5Q5 

of this circle, the rays that pass above the centre occupying the 
upper part of the circular spot, and so of the rest. And we know 
that the object is in this case seen confused, every point of it 
being seen, not in one, but in various directions. To remedy 
this confusion, we look at the object through the pin-hole, and 
while we move the pin-hole over the various parts of the pupil, 
the object does not keep its place, but seems to move in a con- 
trary direction. 

It is here to be observed, that when the pin-hole is carried 
upwards over the pupil, the picture of the object is carried up- 
wards upon the retina, and the object at the same time seems to 
move downwards, so as to be always in the right line passing 
from the picture through the centre of the eye. It is likewise to 
be observed, that the rays which form the upper and the lower 
pictures upon the retina do not cross each other as in ordinary 
vision ; yet still the higher picture shows the object lower, and 
the lower picture shows the object higher, in the same manner as 
when the rays cross each other. Whence we may observe, by the 
way, that this phenomenon of our seeing objects in a position con- 
trary to that of their pictures upon the retina, does not depend 
upon the crossing of the rays, as Kepler and Des Cartes conceived. 

Experiment 3. Other things remaining as in the last experi- 
ment, make three pin-holes in a straight line, so near, that the 
rays coining from the object through all the holes, may enter 
the pupil at the same time. In this case we have a very curious 
phenomenon ; for the object is seen triple with one eye. And 
if you make more holes within the breadth of the pupil, you will 
see as many objects as there are holes. However, we shall sup- 
pose them only three ; one on the right, one in the middle, and 
one on the left ; in which case you see three objects standing 
in a line from right to left. 

It is here to be observed, that there are three pictures on the 
retina ; that on the left being formed by the rays which pass on 
the left of the eye's centre ; the middle picture being formed by 
the central rays ; and the right-hand picture by the rays which 
pass on the right of the eye's centre. It is further to be ob- 
served, that the object which appears on the right is not that 
which is seen through the hole on the right, but that which is. 
seen through the hole on the left ; and in like manner, the left- 
hand object is seen through the hole on the right, as is easily 
proved by covering the holes successively. So that, whatever is 
the direction of the rays which form the right-hand and left-hand 
pictures, still the right-hand picture shows a left-hand object, 
and the left-hand picture shows a right-hand object. 

Experiment 4. It is easy to see how the two last experiments 
may be varied, by placing the object beyond the furthest limit of 



506 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

distinct vision. In order to make this experiment, I looked at 
a candle at the distance of ten feet, and put the eye of my spec- 
tacles behind the card, that the rays from the same point of the 
object might meet, and cross each other, before they reached 
the retina. In this case, as in the former, the candle was seen 
triple through the three pin-holes ; but the candle on the right 
was seen through the hole on the right ; and, on the contrary, 
the left-hand candle was seen through the hole on the left. In 
this experiment it is evident from the principles of optics, that 
the rays forming the several pictures on the retina cross each 
other a little before they reach the retina ; and therefore the 
left-hand picture is formed by the rays which pass through the 
hole on the right : so that the position of the pictures is contrary 
to that of the holes by which they are formed ; and therefore is 
also contrary to that of their objects, as we have found it to be 
in the former experiments. 

These experiments exhibit several uncommon phenomena, 
that regard the apparent place, and the direction of visible objects 
from the eye ; phenomena that seem to be most contrary to the 
common rules of vision. When we look at the same time through 
three holes that are in a right line, and at certain distances from 
each other, we expect that the objects seen through them should 
really be, and should appear to be, at a distance from each other : 
yet, by the first experiment, we may, through three such holes, 
see the same object, and the same point of that object; and 
through all the three it appears in the same individual place and 
direction. 

When the rays of light come from the object in right lines to 
the eye, without any reflection, inflection, or refraction, we ex- 
pect that the object should appear in its real and proper direc- 
tion from the eye ; and so it commonly does : but in the second, 
third, and fourth experiments we see the object in a direction 
which is not its true and real direction from the eye, although 
the rays come from the object to the eye, without any inflection, 
reflection, or refraction. 

When both the "object and the eye are fixed without the least 
motion, and the medium unchanged, we expect that the object 
should appear to rest, and keep the same place. Yet in the 
second and fourth experiments, when both the eye and the object 
are at rest, and the medium unchanged, we make the object 
appear to move upwards or downwards, or in any direction we 
please. 

When we look at the same time, and with the same eye, 
through holes that stand in a line from right to left, we expect, 
that the object seen through the left-hand hole should appear on 
the left, and the object seen through the right-hand hole should 



OF SEEING. 507 

appear on the right. Yet in the third experiment, we find the 
direct contrary. Although many instances occur of seeing the 
same object double with two eyes, we always expect that it 
should appear single when seen only by one eye. Yet in the 
second and fourth experiments, we have instances wherein the 
same object may appear double, triple, or quadruple to one eye, 
without the help of a polyhedron or multiplying glass. 

All these extraordinary phenomena, regarding the direction of 
visible objects from the eye, as well as those that are common 
and ordinary, lead us to that law of nature- which I have men- 
tioned, and are the necessary consequences of it. [And, as there 
is no probability that we shall ever be . able to give a reason why 
pictures upon the retina should make us see external objects, 
any more than pictures upon the hand or upon the cheek ; or 
that we shall ever be able to give a reason why we should see 
the object in the direction of a line passing from its picture 
through the centre of the eye, rather than in any other direc- 
tion ; I am therefore apt to look upon this law as a primary law 
of our constitution. ~\ 

To prevent being misunderstood, I beg the reader to observe, 
that I do not mean to affirm, that the picture upon the retina 
will make us see an object in the direction mentioned, or in any 
direction, unless the optic nerve, and the other more immediate 
instruments of vision, be sound, and perforin their function. We 
know not well what is the office of the optic nerve, nor in what 
manner it performs that office ; but that it hath some part in 
the faculty of seeing, seems to be certain ; because, in an amau- 
rosis, which is believed to be a disorder of the optic nerve, the 
pictures on the retina are clear and distinct, and yet there is no 
vision. 

We know still less of the use and function of the choroid 
membrane ; but it seems likewise to be necessary to vision : for 
it is well known, that pictures upon that part of the retina where 
it is not covered by the choroid, I mean at the entrance of the 
optic nerve, produce no vision, any more than a picture upon the 
hand. We acknowledge, therefore, that the retina is not the 
last and most immediate instrument of the mind in vision. There 
are other material organs, whose operation is necessary to seeing, 
even after the pictures upon the retina are formed. If ever we 
come to know the structure and use of the choroid membrane, 
the optic nerve, and the brain, and what impressions are made 
upon them by means of the pictures on the retina, some more 
links of the chain may be brought within our view, and a more 
general law of vision discovered : but while we know so little of 
the nature and office of these more immediate instruments of 
vision, it seems to be impossible to trace its laws beyond the 
pictures upon the retina. 



508 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

Neither do I pretend to say, that there may not be diseases of 
the eye, or accidents, which may occasion our seeing objects in a 
direction somewhat different from that mentioned above. I shall 
beg leave to mention one instance of this kind that concerns 
myself. 

In May, 1761, being occupied in making an exact meridian, 
in order to observe the transit of Venus, I rashly directed to the 
sun, by my right eye, the cross hairs of a small telescope. I 
had often done the like in my younger days with impunity ; but 
I suffered by it at last, which I mention as a warning to others. 

I soon observed a remarkable dimness in that eye ; and for 
many weeks, when I was in the dark, or shut my eyes, there ap- 
peared before the right eye a lucid spot, which trembled much 
like the image of the sun seen by reflection from water. This 
appearance grew fainter and less frequent by degrees ; so that 
now there are seldom any remains of it. But some other very 
sensible effects of this hurt still remain. For, first, The sight 
of the right eye continues to be more dim than that of the left. 
Secondly, The nearest limit of distinct vision is more remote in 
the right eye than in the other ; although, before the time men- 
tioned, they were equal in both these respects, as I had found by 
many trials. But, thirdly, What I chiefly intended to mention 
is, that a straight line, in some circumstances, appears to the 
right eye to have a curvature in it. Thus, when I look upon a 
music-book, and, shutting my left eye, direct the right to a 
point of the middle line of the five which compose the staff of 
music, the middle line appears dim indeed, at the point to 
which the eye is directed, but straight ; at the same time the 
two lines above it, and the two below it, appear to be bent out- 
wards, and to be more distant from each other, and from the 
middle line, than at other parts of the staff, to which the eye is 
not directed. Fourthly, Although I have repeated this experi- 
ment times innumerable, within these sixteen months, I do not 
find that custom and experience take away this appearance of 
curvature in straight lines. Lastly, This appearance of curva- 
ture is perceptible when I look with the right eye only, but not 
when I look with both eyes : yet I see better with both eyes 
together than even with the left eye alone. 

I have related this fact minutely as it is, without regard to 
any hypothesis, because I think such uncommon facts deserve 
to be recorded. I shall leave it to others to conjecture the 
cause of this appearance. To me it seems most probable, that 
a small part of the retina towards the centre is shrunk, and that 
thereby the contiguous parts are drawn nearer to the centre, 
and to one another, than they were before ; and that objects 
whose images fall on these parts appear at that distance from 
each other which corresponds, not to the interval of the parts in 



OF SEEING. 5Q9 

their present preternatural contraction, but to their interval in 
their natural and sound state. 

XIII. Of seeing objects single with two eyes. — Another phe- 
nomenon of vision which deserves attention, is our seeing objects 
single with two eyes. There are two pictures of the object, 
one on each retina ; and each picture by itself makes us see an 
object in a certain direction from the eye : yet both together 
commonly make us see only one object. All the accounts or 
solutions of this phenomenon given by anatomists and philo- 
sophers seem to be unsatisfactory. I shall pass over the opinions 
of Galen, of Gassendus, of Baptista Porta, and of Rohault. 
The reader may see these examined and refuted by Dr. Porter- 
field. I shall examine Dr. Porterfield's own opinion, Bishop 
Berkeley's, and some others. But it will be necessary first to 
ascertain the facts ; for if we mistake the phenomena of single 
and double vision, it is ten to one but this mistake will lead us 
wrong in assigning the causes. This likewise w r e ought care- 
fully to attend to, which is acknowledged in theory by all who 
have any true judgment or just taste in inquiries of this nature, 
but is very often overlooked in practice, namely, That in the 
solution .of natural phenomena, all the length that the human 
faculties can carry us, is only this, that from particular pheno- 
mena, we may, by induction, trace out general phenomena, of 
which all the particular ones are necessary consequences. And 
when we have arrived at the most general phenomena we can 
reach, there we must stop. If it is asked, Why such a body 
gravitates towards the earth ? all the answer that can be given 
is, Because all bodies gravitate towards the earth. This is re- 
solving a particular phenomenon into a general one. If it should 
again be asked, Why do all bodies gravitate towards the earth ? 
we can give no other solution of this phenomenon, but that all 
bodies whatsoever gravitate towards each other. This again is 
resolving a general phenomenon into a more general one. If it 
should be asked, Why all bodies gravitate to one another ? we 
cannot tell ; but if we could tell, it could only be by resolving 
this universal gravitation of bodies into some other phenomenon 
still more general, and of which the gravitation of all bodies is 
a particular instance. The most general phenomena we can 
reach, are what we call laws of nature. So that the laws of 
nature are nothing else but the most general facts relating to 
the operations of nature, which include a great many particular 
facts under them. And if in any case we should give the name 
of a law of nature to a general phenomenon, which human 
industry shall afterwards trace to one more general, there is no 
great harm done. The most general assumes the name of a law 
of nature, when it is discovered; and the less general is con- 
tained and comprehended in it. Having premised these things, 



510 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. Vt. 

we proceed to consider the phenomena of single and double 
vision, in order to discover some general principle to which they 
all lead, and of which they are the necessary consequences. If 
we can discover any such general principle, it must either be a 
law of nature, or the necessary consequence of some law of 
nature ; and its authority will be equal, whether it is the first or 
the last. 

1. We find, that when the eyes are sound and perfect, and the 
axes of both directed to one point, an object placed in that 
point is seen single : and here we observe, that in this case the 
two pictures which show the object single, are in the centres of 
the retinae. When two pictures of a small object are formed 
upon points of the retinae, if they show the object single, we 
shall, for the sake of perspicuity, call such two points of the 
retinae corresponding points ; and where the object is seen double, 
we shall call the points of the retinae on which the pictures are 
formed, points that do not correspond. Now, in this first pheno- 
menon it is evident, that the two centres of the retinae are cor- 
responding points. 

2. Supposing the same things as in the last phenomenon, 
other objects at the same distance from the eyes as that to which 
their axes are directed, do also appear single. Thus, if I direct 
my eyes to a candle placed at the distance of ten feet ; and, 
while I look at this candle, another stands at the same distance 
from my eyes, within the field of vision ; I can, while I look at 
the first candle, attend to the appearance which the second makes 
to the eye ; and I find that in this case it always appears single. 
It is here to be observed, that the pictures of the second candle 
do not fall upon the centres of the retinae, but they both fall 
upon the same side of the centres, that is, both to the right, or 
both to the left, and both are at the same distance from the 
centres. This might easily be demonstrated from the princi- 
ples of optics. Hence it appears, that in this second pheno- 
menon of single vision, the corresponding points are points of 
the two retinae, which are similarly situate with respect to the 
two centres, being both upon the same side of the centre, and at 
the same distance from it. It appears, likewise, from this phe- 
nomenon, that every point in one retina corresponds with that 
which is similarly situate in the other. 

3. Supposing still the same things, objects which are much 
nearer to the eyes, or much more distant from them, than that 
to which the two eyes are directed, appear double. Thus, if 
the candle is placed at the distance of ten feet, and I hold my 
finger at arm's-length between my eyes and the candle, when I 
look at the candle, I see my finger double ; and when I look at 
my finger, I see the candle double : and the same thing happens 
with regard to all other objects at like distances which fall within 



OF SEEING. 5U 

the sphere of vision. In this phenomenon it is evident to those 
who understand the principles of optics, that the pictures of the 
objects which are seen double, do not fall upon points of 
the retinae which are similarly situate, but that the pictures of the 
objects seen single do fall npon points similarly situate. Whence 
we infer, that as the points of the two retinas which are simi- 
larly situate with regard to the centres, do correspond, so those 
which are dissimilarly situate do not correspond. 

4. It is to be observed, that although in such cases as are men- 
tioned in the last phenomenon, we have been accustomed from 
infancy to see objects double which we know to be single ; yet 
custom, and experience of the unity of the object, never take away 
this appearance of duplicity. 

5. It may however be remarked, that the custom of attending 
to visible appearances has a considerable effect, and makes the 
phenomenon of double vision to be more or less observed and 
remembered. Thus you may find a man that can say with a good 
conscience, that he never saw things double all his life. Yet this 
very man, put in the situation above mentioned, with his finger 
between him and the candle, and desired to attend to the appear- 
ance of the object which he does not look at, will, upon the first 
trial, see the candle double, when he looks at his finger ; and his 
finger double, when he looks at the candle. Does he now see other- 
wise than he saw before ? No, surely, but he now attends to what 
he never attended to before. The same double appearance of an 
object hath been a thousand times presented to his eye before 
now; but he did not attend to it ; and so it is as little an object 
of his reflection and memory, as if it had never happened. 

When we look at an object, the circumjacent objects may be 
seen at the same time, although more obscurely and indistinctly ; 
for the eye hath a considerable field of vision, which it takes in 
at once. But we attend only to the object we look at. The 
other objects which fall within the field of vision are not at- 
tended to, and therefore are as if they were not seen. If any 
of them draws our attention, it naturally draws the eyes at the 
same time, (for in the common course of life, the eyes always follow 
the attention,) or if at any. time, in a reverie, they are separated 
from it, we hardly at that time see what is directly before us. 
Hence we may see the reason, why the man we are speaking of 
thinks that he never before saw an object double. When he looks 
at any object, he sees it single, and takes no notice of other visible 
objects at that time, whether they appear single or double. If any 
of them draws his attention, it draws his eyes at the same time ; and 
as soon as the eyes are turned towards it, it appears single. But 
in order to see things double, at least in order to have any reflec- 
tion or remembrance that he did so, it is necessary that he 
should look at one object, and at the same time attend to the 



512 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

faint appearance of other objects which are within the field of 
vision. This is a practice which perhaps he never used, nor at- 
tempted; and therefore he does not recollect that ever he saw 
an object double. But when he is put upon giving this attention, 
he immediately sees objects double in the same manner, and 
with the very same circumstances, as they who have been accus- 
tomed, for the greatest part of their lives, to give this attention. 
There are many phenomena of a similar nature, which show 
that the mind may not attend to, and thereby, in some sort, not 
perceive, objects that strike the senses. I had occasion to men- 
tion several instances of this in the second chapter ; and I have 
been assured, by persons of the best skill in music, that in hear- 
ing a tune upon the harpsichord, when they give attention to the 
treble, they do not hear the bass ; and when they attend to the 
bass, they do not perceive the air of the treble. Some persons 
are so near-sighted, that, in reading, they hold the book to one 
eye, while the other is directed to other objects. Such persons 
acquire the habit of attending in this case to the objects of one 
eye, while they give no attention to those of the other. 

6. It is observable, that in all cases wherein we see an object 
double, the two appearances have a certain position with regard 
to one another, and a certain apparent or angular distance. This 
apparent distance is greater or less in different circumstances ; 
but in the same circumstances, it is always the same, not only to 
the same, but to different persons. 

Thus, in the experiment above mentioned, if twenty different 
persons, who see perfectly with both eyes, shall place their finger 
and the candle at the distances above expressed, and hold their 
heads upright, looking at the finger, they will see two candles, 
one on the right, another on the left. That which is seen on the 
right, is seen by the right eye, and that which is seen on the 
left, by the left eye ; and they will see them at the same appa- 
rent distance from each other. If again they look at the candle, 
they will see two fingers, one on the right, and the other on the 
left ; and all will see them at the same apparent distance ; the 
finger towards the left being seen by the right eye, and the other 
by the left. If the head is laid horizontally to one side, other 
circumstances remaining the same, one appearance of the object 
seen double, will be directly above the other. In a word, vary 
the circumstances as you please, and the appearances are varied 
to all the spectators in one and the same manner. 

7. Having made many experiments in order to ascertain the ap- 
parent distance of the two appearances. of an object seen double, 
I have found, that in all cases this apparent distance is pro- 
portioned to the distance between the point of the retina, where 
the picture is made in one eye, and the point which is situate 
similarly to that on which the picture is made on the other eye. 



OF SEEING. frig 

So that as the apparent distance of two objects seen with one 
eye, is proportioned to the arch of the retina, which lies between 
their pictures ; in like manner, when an object is seen double 
with the two eyes, the apparent distance of the two appearances 
is proportioned to the arch of either retina, which lies between 
the picture in that retina, and the point corresponding to that of 
the picture in the other retina. 

8. As in certain circumstances we invariably see one object 
appear double, so in others we as invariably see two objects unite 
into one ; and in appearance lose their duplicity. This is evi- 
dent in the appearance of the binocular telescope. And the 
same thing happens when any two similar tubes are applied to 
the two eyes in a parallel direction ; for in this case we see only 
one tube. And if two shillings are placed at the extremities of 
the two tubes, one exactly in the axis of one eye, and the other 
in the axis of the other eye, we shall see but one shilling. If 
two pieces of coin, or other bodies, of different colour, and of 
different figure, be properly placed in the two axes of the eyes, 
and at the extremities of the tubes, we shall see both the bodies 
in one and the same place, each as it were spread over the other, 
without hiding it ; and the colour will be that which is com- 
pounded of the two colours. 

9. From these phenomena, and from all the trials I have been 
able to make, it appears evidently, that in perfect human eyes, 
the centres of the two retinae correspond and harmonize with 
one another ; and that every other point in one retina, doth cor- 
respond and harmonize with the point which is similarly situate 
in the other ; in such manner, that pictures falling on the cor- 
responding points of the two retinas, show only one object, even 
when there are really two ; and pictures falling upon points of the 
retinae which do not correspond, show us two visible appear- 
ances, although there be but one object. So that pictures upon 
corresponding points of the two retinae, present the same appear- 
ance to the mind as if they had both fallen upon the same 
point of one retina ; and pictures upon points of the two retinae 
which do not correspond, present to the mind the same apparent 
distance and position of two objects, as if one of those pictures 
was carried to the point corresponding to it in the other retina. 
This relation and sympathy between corresponding points of the 
two retinae, I do not advance as an hypothesis, but as a general 
fact or phenomenon of vision. All the phenomena before men- 
tioned, of single or double vision, lead to it, and are necessary 
consequences of it. It holds true invariably in all perfect human 
eyes, as far as I am able to collect from innumerable trials of 
various kinds made upon my own eyes, and many made by others 
at my desire. Most of the hypotheses that have been contrived 
to resolve the phenomena of single and double vision, suppose 

2l 



514 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

this general fact, while their authors were not aware of it. Sir 
Isaac Newton, who was too judicious a philosopher, and too ac- 
curate an observer, to have offered even a conjecture which did 
not tally with the facts that had fallen under his observation, 
proposes a query with respect to the cause of it, " Optics," quer. 
15. The judicious Dr. Smith, in his "Optics," lib. 1. § 137, 
hath confirmed the truth of this general phenomenon from his 
own experience, not only as to the apparent unity of objects 
whose pictures fall upon the corresponding points of the retinae, 
but also as to the apparent distance of the two appearances of 
the same object when seen double. 

This general phenomenon appears, therefore, to be founded 
upon a very full induction, which is all the evidence we can have 
for a fact of this nature. Before we make an end of this subject, 
it will be proper to inquire, first, Whether those animals whose 
eyes have an adverse position in their heads, and look contrary 
ways, have such corresponding points in their retinae ? Secondly, 
What is the position of the corresponding points in imperfect 
human eyes, I mean in those that squint ? And, in the last 
place, Whether this harmony of the corresponding points in the 
retinae be natural and original, or the effect of custom ? And if 
it is original, Whether it can be accounted for by any of the laws 
of nature already discovered ? or whether it is itself to be looked 
upon as a law of nature, and a part of the human constitution ? 

XIV. Of the laws of vision in brute animals. — It is the inten- 
tion of nature, in giving eyes to animals, that they may perceive 
the situation of visible objects, or the direction in which they are 
placed : it is probable, therefore, that in ordinary cases, every 
animal, whether it has many eyes or few, whether of one struc- 
ture or of another, sees objects single and in their true and proper 
direction. And since there is a prodigious variety in the struc- 
ture, the motions, and the number of eyes in different animals 
and insects, it is probable that the laws by which vision is regu- 
lated, are not the same in all, but various, adapted to the eyes 
which nature hath given them. 

Mankind naturally turn their eyes always the same way, so 
that the axes of the two eyes meet in one point. They naturally 
attend to, or look at that object only which is placed in the point 
where the axes meet. And whether the object be more or less 
distant, the configuration of the eye is adapted to the distance of 
the object, so as to form a distinct picture of it. 

When we use' our eyes in this natural way, the two pictures 
of the object we look at, are formed upon the centres of the two 
retinae ; and the two pictures of any contiguous object are formed 
upon points of the retinae which are similarly situate with regard 
to the centres. Therefore, in order to our seeing objects single, 
and in their proper direction, with two eyes, it is sufficient that 



OF SEEING. 515 

we be so constituted, that objects whose pictures are formed upon 
the centres of the two retinae, or upon points similarly situate 
with regard to these centres, shall be seen in the same visible 
place. And this is the constitution which nature hath actually 
given to human eyes. 

When we distort our eyes from their parallel direction, which 
is an unnatural motion, but may be learned by practice ; or 
when we direct the axes of the two eyes to one point, and at the 
same time direct our attention to some visible object much nearer 
or much more distant than that point, which is also unnatural, 
yet may be learned ; in these cases, and in these only, we see one 
object double, or two objects confounded in one. In these cases, 
the two pictures of the same object are formed upon .points of the 
retinae which are not similarly situate, and so the object is seen 
double, or the two pictures of different objects are formed upon 
points of the retinae which are similarly situate, and so the two 
objects are seen confounded in one place. 

Thus it appears that the laws of vision in the human constitu- 
tion are wisely adapted to the natural use of human eyes, but not 
to that use of them which is unnatural. We see objects truly 
when we use our eyes in the natural way ; but have false appear- 
ances presented to us when we use them in a way that is unna- 
tural. We may reasonably think, that the case is the same with 
other animals. But is it not unreasonable to think, that those ani- 
mals which naturally turn one eye towards one object, and another 
towards another, must thereby have such false appearances pre- 
sented to them, as we have when we do so against nature ? 

IgF Many animals have their eyes by nature placed adverse 
and immoveable, the axes of the two eyes being always directed 
to opposite points. Do objects painted on the centres of the two 
retinae appear to such animals as they do to human eyes, in one 
and the same visible place ? I think it is highly probable that 
they do not ; and that they appear, as they really are, in oppo- 
site places. 

If we judge from analogy in this case, it will lead us to think, 
that there is a certain correspondence between points of the two 
retinae in such animals, but of a different kind from that which 
we have found in human eyes. The centre of one retina will 
correspond with the centre of the other, in such manner that the 
objects whose pictures are formed upon these corresponding 
points, shall appear not to be in the same place as in human eyes, 
but in opposite places. And in the same manner will the supe- 
rior part of one retina correspond with the inferior part of the 
other, and the anterior part of one with the posterior part of the 
other. 

Some animals, by nature, turn their eyes with equal facility, 
either the same way, or different ways, as we turn our hands and 

2l2 



515 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI 

arms. Have such animals corresponding points in their retinae, 
and points which do not correspond, as the human kind has ? I 
think it is prohable that they have not ; because such a constitu- 
tion in them could serve no other purpose but to exhibit false 
appearances. 

If we judge from analogy, it will lead us to think that as such 
animals move their eyes in a manner similar to that in which we 
move our arms, they have an immediate and natural perception 
of the direction they give to their eyes, as we have of the direc- 
tion we give to our arms, and perceive the situation of visible 
objects by their eyes, in a manner similar to that in which we 
perceive the situation of tangible objects with our hands. 

We cannot teach brute animals to use their eyes in any other 
way than in that which nature hath taught them ; nor can we 
teach them to communicate to ns the appearances which visible 
objects make to them, either in ordinary or in extraordinary 
cases. We have not, therefore, the same means of discovering 
the laws of vision in them as in our own kind, but must satisfy 
ourselves with probable conjectures : and what we have said upon 
this subject is chiefly intended to show that animals to which 
nature hath given eyes differing in their number, in their posi- 
tion, and in their natural motions, may very probably be sub- 
jected to different laws of vision, adapted to the peculiarities of 
their organs of vision. 

XV. The phenomena of squinting considered hypothetically. — 
Whether there be corresponding points in the retinae of those who 
have an involuntary squint ? and if there are, whether they be 
situate in the same manner as in those who have no squint ? are 
not questions of mere curiosity. They are of real importance to 
the physician who attempts the cure of a squint, and to the patient 
who submits to the cure. After so much hath been said of the 
strabismus, or squint, both by medical and by optical w r riters, 
one might expect to find abundance of facts for determining these 
questions. Yet I confess I have been disappointed in this ex- 
pectation, after taking some pains both to make observations, 
and to collect those which have been made by others. 

Nor will this appear very strange, if we consider, that to make 
the observations which are necessary for determining these ques- 
tions, knowledge of the principles of optics, and of the laws of 
vision, must concur with opportunities rarely to be met with. 

Of those who squint, the far greater part have no distinct 
vision with one eye. When this is the case, it is impossible, and 
indeed of no importance, to determine the situation of the cor- 
responding points. When both eyes are good, they commonly 
differ so much in their direction, that the same object cannot be 
seen by both at the same time : and in this case it will be very 
difficult to determine the situation of the corresponding points ; 






OF SEEING. 517 

for such persons will probably attend only to the objects of one 
eye, and the objects of the other will be as little regarded as if 
they were not seen. 

We have before observed, that when we look at a near object, 
and attend to it, we do not perceive the double appearances of 
more distant objects, even when they are in the same direction, 
and are presented to the eye at the same time. It is probable 
that a squinting person, when he attends to the objects of one 
eye, will, in like manner, have his attention totally diverted from 
the objects of the other; and that he will perceive them as little 
as we perceive the double appearances of objects when we use 
our eyes in the natural way. Such a person, therefore, unless 
he is so much a philosopher as to have acquired the habit of 
attending very accurately to the visible appearances of objects, 
and even of objects w r hich he does not look at, will not be able 
to give any light to the questions now under consideration. 

HsF It is very probable that hares, rabbits, birds, and fishes, 
whose eyes are fixed in an adverse position, have the natural 
faculty of attending at the same time to visible objects placed in 
different, and even in contrary directions ; because, without this 
faculty, they could not have those advantages from the contrary 
direction of their eyes, which nature seems to have intended. 
But it is not probable that those who squint have any such 
natural faculty ; because we find no such faculty in the rest of 
the species. We naturally attend to objects placed in the point 
where the axes of the two eyes meet, and to them only. To 
give attention to an object in a different direction is unnatural, 
and not to be learned without pains and practice. 

A very convincing proof of this may be drawn from a fact now 
well known to philosophers : when one eye is shut, there is a cer- 
tain space within the field of vision, where we can see nothing at all ; 
the space which is directly opposed to that part of the bottom of 
the eye where the optic nerve enters. This defect of sight in 
one part of the eye, is common to all human eyes, and hath been 
so from the beginning of the world ; yet it was never known, 
until the sagacity of the Abbe Mariotte discovered it in the last 
century. And now when it is known, it cannot be perceived, 
but by means of some particular experiments, which require care 
and attention to make them succeed. 

What is the reason that so remarkable a defect of sight, com- 
mon to all mankind, was so long unknown, and is now perceived 
with so much difficulty ? It is surely this, that the defect is at 
some distance from the axis of the eye, and consequently in a 
part of the field of vision to which we never attend naturally, 
and to which we cannot attend at all, without the aid of some 
particular circumstances. 

From what we have said it appears, that to determine the 



518 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

situation of trie corresponding points in tlie eyes of those who 
squint is impossible, if they do not see distinctly with both eyes ; 
and that it will be very difficult, unless the two eyes differ so 
little in their direction, that the same object may be seen with 
both at the same time. Such patients I apprehend are rare ; at 
least there are very few of them with whom I have had the for- 
tune to meet ; and therefore, for the assistance of those who may 
have happier opportunities, and inclination to make the proper 
use of them, we shall consider the case of squinting hypo the ti- 
cally, pointing out the proper articles of inquiry, the observa- 
tions that are wanted, and the conclusions that may be drawn 
from them. 

1 . It ought to be inquired, whether the squinting person sees 
equally well with both eyes ? and, if there be a defect in one, 
the nature and degree of that defect ought to be remarked. The 
experiments by which this may be done, are so obvious that I 
need not mention them. But I would advise the observer to 
make the proper experiments, and not to rely upon the testi- 
mony of the patient ; because I have found many instances, both 
of persons that squinted, and others, who were found, upon trial, 
to have a great defect in the sight of one eye, although they were 
never aware of it before. In all the following articles it is sup- 
posed that the patient sees with both eyes so well, as to be able 
to read with either, when the other is covered. 

2. It ought to be inquired, whether, when one eye is covered, 
the other is turned directly to the object ? This ought to be 
tried in both eyes successively. By this observation, as a touch- 
stone, we may try the hypothesis concerning squinting, invented 
by M. de la Hire, and adopted by Boerhaave, and many others 
of the medical faculty. 

The hypothesis is, that in one eye of a squinting person, the 
greatest sensibility and the most distinct vision is not, as in other 
men, in the centre of the retina, but upon one side of the centre ; 
and that he turns the axis of this eye aside from the object, in 
order that the picture of the object may fall upon the most sen- 
sible part of the retina, and thereby give the most distinct vision. 
If this is the cause of squinting, the squinting eye will be turned 
aside from the object, when the other eye is covered, as well as 
when it is not. 

A trial so easy to be made, never was made, for more than 
forty years ; but the hypothesis was very generally received. So 
prone are men to invent hypotheses, and so backward to examine 
them by facts. At last Dr. Jurin having made the trial, found 
that persons who squint, turn the axis of the squinting eye 
directly to the object, when the other eye is covered. This fact 
is confirmed by Dr. Porterfield ; and I have found it verified in 
all the instances that have fallen under my observation. 



OF SEEING. 519 

3. It ought to be inquired, whether the axes of the two eyes 
follow one another, so as to have always the same inclination, or 
make the same angle, when the person looks to the right or to 
the left, upward or downward, or straight forward. By this 
observation we may judge, whether a squint is owing to any 
defect in the muscles which move the eye, as some have sup- 
posed. In the following articles we suppose that the inclination 
of the axes of the eyes is found to be always the same. 

4. It ought to be inquired, whether the person that squints 
sees an object single or double ? 

If he sees the object double ; and if the two appearances have 
an angular distance equal to the angle which the axes of his eyes 
make with each other, it may be concluded that he hath corre- 
sponding points in the retinas of his eyes, and that they have the 
same situation as in those who have no squint. If the two 
appearances should have an angular distance which is always the 
same, but manifestly greater or less than the angle contained 
under the optic axes, this would indicate corresponding points in 
the retinas, whose situation is not the same as in those who have 
no squint; but it is difficult to judge accurately of the angle 
which the optic axes make. 

A squint too small to be perceived, may occasion double vision 
of objects : for if we speak strictly, every person squints more or 
less, whose optic axes do not meet exactly in the object which 
he looks at. Thus, if a man can only bring the axes of his eyes 
to be parallel, but cannot make them converge in the least, he 
must have a small squint in looking at near objects, and will see 
them double, while he sees very distant objects single. Again, 
if the optic axes always converge, so as to meet eight or ten feet 
before the face at farthest, such a person will see near objects 
single; but when he looks at very distant objects, he will squint 
a little, and see them double. 

An instance of this kind is related by Aguilonius in his 
" Optics;" who says, that he had seen a young man to whom near 
objects appeared single, but distant objects appeared double. 

Dr. Briggs, in his " Nova Yisionis Theoria," having collected 
from authors several instances of double vision, quotes this from 
Aguilonius, as the most wonderful and unaccountable of all, in 
so much that he suspects some imposition on the part of the 
young man: but to those who understand the laws by which 
single and double vision are regulated, it appears to be the 
natural effect of a very small squint. 

Double vision may always be owing to a small squint, when 
the two appearances are seen at a small angular distance, although 
no squint was observed : and I do not remember any instances of 
double vision recorded by authors, wherein any account is given 
of the angular distance of the appearances. 



520 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

' 111 almost all the instances of double vision, there is reason to 
suspect a squint or distortion of the eyes, from the concomitant 
circumstances, which we find to be one or other of the following, 
the approach of death, or of a deliquium, excessive drinking, or 
other intemperance, violent headach, blistering the head, smoking 
tobacco, blows or wounds in the head. In all these cases, it is 
reasonable to suspect a distortion of the eyes, either from spasm, 
or paralysis, in the muscles that move them. But although it be 
probable that there is always a squint greater or less where there 
is double vision ; yet it is certain that there is not double vision 
always where there is a squint. I know no instance of double 
vision that continued for life, or even for a great number of years. 
We shall therefore suppose, in the following articles, that the 
squinting person sees objects single. 

5. The next inquiry then ought to be, whether the object is 
seen with both eyes at the same time, or only with the eye whose 
axis is directed to it ? It hath been taken for granted, by the 
writers upon the strabismus, before Dr. Jurin, that those who 
squint, commonly see objects single with both eyes at the same 
time ; but I know not one fact advanced by any writer which 
proves it. Dr. Jurin is of a contrary opinion ; and as it is of 
consequence, so it is very easy, to determine this point in parti- 
cular instances, by this obvious experiment. While the person 
that squints looks steadily at an object, let the observer carefully 
remark the direction of both his eyes, and observe their motions ; 
and let an opaque body be interposed between the object and the 
two eyes successively. If the patient, notwithstanding this inter- 
position, and without changing the direction of his eyes, con- 
tinues to see the object all the time, it may be concluded 
that he saw it with both eyes at once. But if the interposition 
of the body between one eye and the object, makes it disappear, 
then we may be certain, that it was seen by that eye only. In 
the two following articles we shall suppose the first to happen, 
according to the common hypothesis. 

6. IJpon this supposition it ought to be inquired, whether the 
patient sees an object double in those circumstances wherein it 
appears double to them who have no squint ? Let him, for in- 
stance, place a candle at the distance of ten feet ; and holding his 
finger at arm's length between him and the candle, let him ob- 
serve, when he looks at the candle, whether he sees his finger 
with both eyes, and whether he sees it single or double ; and 
when he looks at his finger, let him observe whether he sees the 
candle with both eyes, and whether single or double. 

[By this observation, it may be determined, whether to this 
patient, the phenomena of double as w r ell as of single vision are 
the same as to them who have no squint. If they are not the 
same ; if he sees objects single with two eyes, not only in the 



OF SEEING. 



521 

cases wherein they appear single, but in those also wherein they 
appear double to other men ; the conclusion to be drawn from 
this supposition is, that his single vision does not arise from cor- 
responding points in the retince of his eyes ; and that the laws of 
vision are not the same in him as in the rest of mankind.] 

7. If, on the other hand, he sees objects double in those cases 
wherein they appear double to others, the conclusion must be, 
that he hath corresponding points in the retinas of his eyes, but 
unnaturally situate ; and their situation may be thus determined. 

When he looks at an object, having the axis of one eye directed 
to it, and the axis of the other turned aside from it ; let us sup- 
pose a right line to pass from the object through the centre of 
the diverging eye. We shall, for the sake of perspicuity, call 
this right line the natural axis of the eye : and it will make an 
angle with the real axis, greater or less, according as his squint 
is greater or less. We shall also call that point of the retina in 
which the natural axis cuts it, the natural centre of the retina ; 
which will be more or less distant from the real centre, according 
as the squint is greater or less. 

Having premised these definitions, it will be evident to those 
who understand the principles of optics, that in this person the 
natural centre of one retina corresponds with the real centre of 
the other, in the very same manner as the two real centres cor- 
respond in perfect eyes ; and that the points similarly situate 
with regard to the real centre in one retina, and the natural cen- 
tre in the other, do likewise correspond, in the very same manner 
as the points similarly situate with regard to the two real centres 
correspond in perfect eyes. 

If it is true, as has been commonly affirmed, that one who 
squints sees an object with both eyes at the same time, and yet 
sees it single, the squint will most probably be such as we have 
described in this article. And we may farther conclude, that if 
a person affected with such a squint as we have supposed, could 
be brought to the habit of looking straight, his sight would 
thereby be greatly hurt. For he would then see every thing 
double which he saw with both eyes at the same time, and dis- 
tant objects would appear to be confounded together. His eyes 
are made for squinting, as much as those of other men are made 
for looking straight ; and his sight would be no less injured by 
looking straight, than that of another man by squinting. He 
can never see perfectly when he does not squint, unless the cor- 
responding points of his eyes should by custom change their 
place ; but how small the probability of this is, will appear in 
the seventeenth section. 

Those of the medical faculty who attempt the cure of a squint, 
would do well to consider, whether it is attended with such 
symptoms as are above described. If it is, the cure would be 






522 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

worse than the malady : for every one will readily acknowledge, 
that it is better to put up with the deformity of a squint, than 
to purchase the cure by the loss of perfect and distinct vision. 

8. We shall now return to Dr. Jurin's hypothesis, and suppose 
that our patient, when he saw objects single notwithstanding 
his squint, was found, upon trial, to have seen them only with 
one eye. 

We would advise such a patient to endeavour, by repeated 
efforts, to lessen his squint, and to bring the axes of his eyes 
nearer to a parallel direction. We have naturally the power of 
making small variations in the inclination of the optic axes ; and 
this power may be greatly increased by exercise. 

In the ordinary and natural use of our eyes, we can direct 
their axes to a fixed star ; in this case they must be parallel : we 
can direct them also to an object six inches distant from the eye; 
and in this case the axes must make an angle of fifteen or twenty 
degrees. We see young people in their frolics learn to squint, 
making their eyes either converge or diverge, when they will, to 
a very considerable degree. Why should it be more difficult for 
a squinting person to learn to look straight when he pleases ? If 
once, by an effort of his will, he can but lessen his squint, fre- 
quent practice will make it easy to lessen it, and will daily 
increase his power. So that if he begins this practice in youth, 
and perseveres in it, he may probably, after some time, learn to 
direct both his eyes to one object. 

When he hath acquired this power, it will be no difficult mat- 
ter to determine, by proper observations, whether the centres of 
the retinas, and other points similarly situate with regard to the 
centres, correspond, as in other men. 

9. Let us now suppose that he finds this to be the case ; and 
that he sees an object single with both eyes, when the axes of 
both are directed to it. It will then concern him to acquire the 
habit of looking straight, as he hath got the power, because he 
will thereby not only remove a deformity, but improve his sight : 
and I conceive this habit, like all others, may be got by frequent 
exercise. He may practise before a mirror when alone, and in 
company he ought to have those about him, who will observe 
and admonish him when he squints. 

10. What is supposed in the 9th article is not merely ima- 
ginary ; it is really the case of some squinting persons, as will 
appear in the next section. Therefore it ought further to be 
inquired, how it comes to pass, that such a person sees an object 
which he looks at only with one eye, when both are open. In 
order to answer this question, it may be observed, first, Whether, 
when he looks at an object, the diverging eye is not drawn so 
close to the nose, that it can have no distinct images ? Or, 
secondly, Whether the pupil of the diverging eye is not covered 



OF SEEING. 5^3 

wholly, or in part, by the upper eye-lid ? Dr. Jurin observed 
instances of these cases in persons that squinted, and assigns 
them as causes of their seeing the object only with one eye. 
Thirdly, it may be observed, Whether the diverging eye is not so 
directed, that the picture of the object falls upon that part of the 
retina where the optic nerve enters, and where there is no vision ? 
This will probably happen in a squint wherein the axes of the 
eyes converge so as to meet about six inches before the nose. 

11. In the last place, it ought to be inquired, whether such a 
person hath any distinct vision at all with the diverging eye, at 
the time he is looking at an object with the other? 

It may seem very improbable that he should be able to read 
with the diverging eye when the other is covered ; and yet, when 
both are open, have no distinct vision with it at all. But this 
perhaps will not appear so improbable, if the following consider- 
ations are duly attended to. 

Let us suppose that one who saw perfectly gets, by a blow on 
the head, or some other accident, a permanent and involuntary 
squint. According to the laws of vision, he will see objects 
double, and will see distant objects confounded together: but 
such vision being very disagreeable, as well as inconvenient, he 
will' do every thing in his power to remedy it. For alleviating 
such distresses, nature often teaches men wonderful expedients, 
which the sagacity of a philosopher would be unable to discover. 
Every accidental motion, every direction or conformation of his 
eyes, which lessens the evil, will be agreeable ; it will be repeated 
until it be learned to perfection, and become habitual, even with- 
out thought or design. Now, in this case, what disturbs the 
sight of one eye, is the sight of the other ; and all the disagree- 
able appearances in vision would cease, if the light of one eye 
was extinct : the sight of one eye will become more distinct and 
more agreeable in the same proportion as that of the other be- 
comes faint and indistinct. It may therefore be expected, that 
every habit will, by degrees, be acquired, which tends to destroy 
distinct vision in one eye, while it is preserved in the other. 
These habits will be greatly facilitated, if one eye was at first 
better than the other ; for in that case the best eye will always 
be directed to the object which he intends to look at, and every 
habit will be acquired which tends to hinder his seeing it at all 
or seeing it distinctly by the other at the same time. 

I shall mention one or two habits that may probably be ac- 
quired in such a case ; perhaps there are others which we cannot 
so easily conjecture. First, By a small increase or diminution 
of his squint, he may bring it to correspond with one or other of 
the cases mentioned in the last article. Secondly, The diverging 
eye may be brought to such a conformation as to be extremely 
short-sighted, and consequently to have no distinct vision of 






524 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

objects at a distance. I knew this to be the case of one person that 
squinted ; but cannot say whether the short-sightedness of the 
diverging eye was original, or acquired by habit. 

We see, therefore, that one who squints, and originally saw 
objects double by reason of that squint, may acquire such habits, 
that when he looks at an object, he shall see it only with one 
eye : nay, he may acquire such habits, that when he looks at an 
object with his best eye, he shall have no distinct vision with 
the other at all. Whether this is really the case, being unable 
to determine in the instances that have fallen under my observa- 
tion, I shall leave to future inquiry. 

I have endeavoured, in the foregoing articles, to delineate 
such a process as is proper in observing the phenomena of squint- 
ing. 1 know well by experience, that this process appears more 
easy in theory than it will be found to be in practice ; and that, 
in order to carry it on with success, some qualifications of mind 
are necessary in the patient, which are not always to be met 
with. But if those who have proper opportunities, and inclina- 
tion, to observe such phenomena, attend duly to this process, 
they may be able to furnish facts less vague and uninstructive 
than those we meet with, even in authors of reputation. By 
such facts, vain theories may be exploded, and our knowledge 
of the laws of nature which regard the noblest of our senses, 
enlarged. 

XVI. Facts relating to squinting. — Having considered the 
phenomena of squinting hypothetically, and their connexion with 
corresponding points in the retinae, I shall now mention the 
facts I have had occasion to observe myself, or to meet with in 
authors that can give any light to this subject. 

Having examined above twenty persons that squinted, I found 
in all of them a defect in the sight of one eye. Four only had 
so much of distinct vision in the weak eye as to be able to read 
with it, when the other was covered. The rest saw nothing at 
all distinctly with one eye. Dr. Porterfield says that this is 
generally the case of people that squint : and I suspect it is so 
more generally than is commonly imagined. Dr. Jurin, in a very 
judicious dissertation upon squinting, printed in Dr. Smith's 
" Optics," observes, that those who squint, and see with both 
eyes, never see the same object with both at the same time ; 
that when one eye is directed straight forward to an object, the 
other is drawn so close to the nose, that the object cannot at all 
be seen by it, the images being too oblique and too indistinct 
to affect the eye. In some squinting persons, he observed the 
diverging eye drawn under the upper eye-lid while the other 
was directed to the object. From these observations he con- 
cludes, that the eye is thus distorted, "not for the sake of 
seeing better with it, but rather to avoid seeing at all with it as 



OF SEEING. ^25 

much as possible." From all the observations he had made, he 
was satisfied that there is nothing peculiar in the structure of a 
squinting eye ; that the fault is only in its wrong direction ; and 
that this wrong direction is got by habit. Therefore he proposes 
that method of cure which we have described in the 8th and 
9th articles of the last section. He tells us, that he had at- 
tempted a cure after this method, upon a young gentleman, with 
promising hopes of success, but was interrupted by his falling 
ill of the small pox, of which he died. 

It were to be wished that Dr. Jurin had acquainted us whether 
he ever brought the young man to direct the axes of both eyes to 
the same object, and whether, in that case, he saw the object 
single, and saw it with both eyes : and that he had likewise 
acquainted us whether he saw objects double when his squint was 
diminished. But as to these facts he is silent. 

I wished long for an opportunity of trying Dr. Jurin's method 
of curing a squint, without finding one ; having always, upon 
examination, discovered so great a defect in the sight of one eye 
of the patient as discouraged the attempt. 

But I have lately found three young gentlemen, with whom I 
am hopeful this method may have success, if they have patience 
and perseverance in using it. Two of them are brothers, and, 
before I had access to examine them, had been practising this 
method by the direction of their tutor, with such success, that 
the elder looks straight when he is upon his guard : the younger 
can direct both his eyes to one object ; but they soon return to 
their usual squint. 

A third young gentleman, who had never heard of this method 
before, by a few days' practice was able to direct both his eyes 
to one object, but could not keep them long in that direction. 
All the three agree in this, that when both eyes are directed to 
one object, they see it and the adjacent objects single ; but when 
they squint, they see objects sometimes single and sometimes 
double. I observed of all the three, that when they squinted 
most, that is, in the way they had been accustomed to, the axes 
of their eyes converged so as to meet five or six inches before the 
nose. It is probable that in this case the picture of the object 
in the diverging eye, must fall upon that part of the retina 
where the optic nerve enters ; and therefore the object could not 
be seen by that eye. 

All the three have some defect in the sight of one eye, which 
none of them knew until I put them upon making trials ; and 
when they squint, the best eye is always directed to the object, 
and the weak eye is that which diverges from it. But when the 
best eye is covered, the weak eye is turned directly to the object. 
Whether this defect of sight in one eye be the effect of its having 



526 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

been long disused, as it must have been when they squinted, 
or whether some original defect in one eye might be the occa- 
sion of their squinting, time may discover. The two brothers 
have found the sight of the weak eye improved by using to 
read with it while the other is covered. The elder can read an 
ordinary print with the weak eye ; the other, as well as the 
third gentleman, can only read a large print with the weak eye. 

I have met with one other person only who squinted, and yet 
could read a large print with the weak eye. He is a young man 
whose eyes are both tender and weak-sighted, but the left much 
weaker than the right. When he looks at any object, he always 
directs the right eye to it, and then the left is turned towards 
the nose so much, that it is impossible for him to see the same 
object with both eyes at the same time. When the right eye is 
covered, he turns the left directly to the object ; but he sees it 
indistinctly, and as if it had a mist about it. 

I made several experiments, some of them in the company and 
with the assistance of an ingenious physician, in order to discover 
whether objects that were in the axes of the two eyes were seen 
in one place confounded together, as in those who have no invo- 
luntary squint. The object placed in the axis of the weak eye 
was a lighted candle, at the distance of eight or ten feet. Before 
the other eye we placed a printed book, at such a distance as that 
he could read upon it. He said that while he read upon the book, 
he saw the candle, but very faintly. And from what we could 
learn, these two objects did not appear in one place, but had 
all that angular distance in appearance which they had in reality. 

If this was really the case, the conclusion to be drawn from it 
is, that the corresponding points in his eyes are not situate in 
the same manner as in other men ; and that if he could be 
brought to direct both eyes to one object, he would see it double. 
But considering that the young man had never been accustomed 
to observations of this kind, and that the sight of one eye was so 
imperfect, I do not pretend to draw this conclusion with cer- 
tainty from this single instance. 

All that can be inferred from these facts is, that of four per- 
sons who squint, three appear to have nothing preternatural in 
the structure of their eyes. The centres of their retinae, and 
the points similarly situate with regard to the centres, do cer- 
tainly correspond in the same manner as in other men. So that 
if they can be brought to the habit of directing their eyes right 
to an object, they will not only remove a deformity, but improve 
their sight. With regard to the fourth, the case is dubious, 
with some probability of a deviation from the usual course of 
nature in the situation of the corresponding points of his eyes. 
XVII. Of the effect of custom in seeing objects single. — It 



OF SEEING. 5£>7 

appears from the phenomena of single and double vision, recited 
in sect. 13, that our seeing an object single with two eyes, de- 
pends upon these two things. First, upon that mutual corres- 
pondence of certain points of the retinae which we have often 
described. Secondly, upon the two eyes being directed to the 
object so accurately, that the two images of it fall upon corres- 
ponding points. These two things must concur in order to our 
seeing an object single with two eyes ; and as far as they de- 
pend upon custom, so far only can single vision depend upon 
custom. 

With regard to the second, that is, the accurate direction of 
both eyes to the object, I think it must be acknowledged that 
this is only learned by custom. Nature hath wisely ordained 
the eyes to move in such manner, that their axes shall always 
be nearly parallel ; but hath left it in our power to vary their 
inclination a little, according to the distance of the object we 
look at. Without this power, objects would appear single at 
one particular distance only ; and at distances much less, or muck 
greater, would always appear double. The wisdom of nature is 
conspicuous in giving us this power, and no less conspicuous in 
making the extent of it exactly adequate to the end. 

[The parallelism of the eyes in general, is therefore the work 
of nature ;. but that precise and accurate direction, which must 
be varied according to the distance of the object, is the effect 
of custom.] The power which nature hath left us of varying the 
inclination of the optic axes a little, is turned into a habit of 
giving them always that inclination which is adapted to the dis- 
tance of the object. 

But it may be asked, What gives rise to this habit ? The 
only answer that can be given to this question is, that it is found 
necessary to perfect and distinct vision. A man who hath lost 
the sight of one eye, very often loses the habit of directing it 
exactly to the object he looks at, because that habit is no longer 
of use to him. And if he should recover the sight of his eye, 
he would recover this habit, by finding it useful. No part of 
the human constitution is more admirable than that whereby we 
acquire habits which are found useful, without any design or 
intention. Children must see imperfectly at first ; but by using 
their eyes, they learn to use them in the best manner, and ac- 
quire, without intending it, the habits necessary for that pur- 
pose. Every man becomes most expert in that kind of vision 
which is most useful to him in his particular profession and man- 
ner of life. A miniature painter, or an engraver, sees very near 
objects better than a sailor ; but the sailor sees very distant 
objects much better than they. A person that is short-sighted, 
in looking at distant objects, gets the habit of contracting the 
aperture of his eyes, by almost closing his eye-lids. Why ? 



528 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

For no other reason, but because this makes him see the object 
more distinct. In like manner, the reason why every man ac- 
quires the habit of directing both eyes accurately to the object, 
must be, because thereby he sees it more perfectly and distinctly. 

It remains to be considered, whether that correspondence be- 
tween certain points of the retinae, which is likewise necessary 
to single vision, be the effect of custom, or an original property 
of human eyes. 

A strong argument for its being an original property, may 
be drawn from the habit just now mentioned of directing the 
eyes accurately to an object. This habit is got by our finding 
it necessary to perfect and distinct vision. But why is it neces- 
sary ? For no other reason but this, — because thereby the two 
images of the object falling upon corresponding points, the eyes 
assist each other in vision, and the object is seen better by both 
together, than it could be by one ; but when the eyes are not 
accurately directed, the two images of an object fall upon points 
that do not correspond, whereby the sight of one eye disturbs 
the sight of the other, and the object is seen more indistinctly 
with both eyes, than it would be with one. Whence it is reason- 
able to conclude, that this correspondence of certain points of 
the retinae, is prior to the habits we acquire in vision, and conse- 
quently is natural and original. We have all acquired the habit 
of directing our eyes always in a particular manner, which causes 
single vision. Now, if nature hath ordained that we should have 
single vision only when our eyes are thus directed, there is an 
obvious reason why all mankind should agree in the habit of 
directing them in this manner. But if single vision is the effect 
of custom, any other habit of directing the eyes would have 
answered the purpose ; and no account can be given why this 
particular habit should be so universal ; and it must appear very 
strange, that no one instance hath been found of a person who 
had acquired the habit of seeing objects single with both eyes, 
while they were directed in any other manner. 

The judicious Dr. Smith, in his excellent system of optics, 
maintains the contrary opinion, and offers some reasonings and 
facts in proof of it. He agrees with Bishop Berkeley in attri- 
buting it entirely to custom, that we see objects single with two 
eyes, as well as that we see objects erect by inverted images. 
Having considered Bishop Berkeley's reasonings in the 11th sec- 
tion, we shall now beg leave to make some remarks on what 
Dr. Smith hath said upon this subject, with the respect due to 
an author to whom the world owes, not only many valuable dis- 
coveries of his own, but those of the brightest mathematical 
genius of this age, which, with great labour, he generously re- 
deemed from oblivion. 

He observes, that the question, Why we see objects single with 



OF SEEING. 529 

two eyes ? is of the same sort with this, Why we hear sounds 
single with two ears ? and that the same answer must serve both. 
The inference intended to be drawn from this observation is, that 
as the second of these phenomena is the effect of custom, so 
likewise is the first. 

Now I humbly conceive that the questions are not so much of 
the same sort, that the same answer must serve for both ; and 
moreover, that our hearing single with two ears is not the effect 
of custom. 

Two or more visible objects, although perfectly similar, and 
seen at the very same time, may be distinguished by their visible 
places : but two sounds perfectly similar, and heard at the same 
time, cannot be distinguished ; for from the nature of sound, 
the sensations they occasion must coalesce into one, and lose all 
distinction. If, therefore, it is asked, Why we hear sounds 
single with two ears ? I answer, Not from custom ; but because 
two sounds which are perfectly like and synchronous, have nothing 
by which they can be distinguished. But will this answer fit 
the other question ? I think not. 

The object makes an appearance to each eye, as the sound 
makes an impression upon each ear ; so far the two senses agree. 
But the visible appearances may be distinguished by place, when 
perfectly like in other respects ; the sounds cannot be thus dis- 
tinguished ; and herein the two senses differ. Indeed, if the 
two appearances have the same visible place, they are, in that 
case, as incapable of distinction as the sounds were, and we see 
the object single. But when they have not the same visible 
place, they are perfectly distinguishable, and we see the object 
double. We see the object single only, when the eyes are di- 
rected in one particular manner ; while there are many other 
ways of directing them within the sphere of our power, by which 
we see the object double. 

Dr. Smith justly attributes to custom mr that well-known fal- 
lacy in feeling, whereby a button pressed with two opposite sides 
of two contiguous fingers laid across, is felt double. I agree with 
him, that the cause of this appearance is, that those opposite 
sides of the fingers have never been used to feel the same object, 
but two different objects, at the same time. And I beg leave to 
add, that as custom produces this phenomenon, so a contrary 
custom destroys it : for if a man frequently accustoms himself 
to feel the button with his fingers across, it will at last be felt 
single ; as I have found by experience. 

It may be taken for a general rule, that things which are pro- 
duced by custom, may be undone or changed by disuse, or by a 
contrary custom. On the other hand, it is a strong argument, 
that an effect is not owing to custom, but to the constitution of 
nature, when a contrary custom, long continued, is found neither 

2 M 



530 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

to change nor weaken it. I take this to be the best rule by 
which we can determine the question presently under considera- 
tion. I shall, therefore, mention two facts brought by Dr. Smith, 
to prove that the corresponding points of the retinae have been 
changed by custom ; and then I shall mention some facts tending 
to prove, that there are corresponding points in the retinae of 
the eyes originally, and that custom produces no change in them. 

" One fact is related, upon the authority of Martin Folkes, 
Esq., who was informed by Dr. Hepburn, of Lynn, that the 
Rev. Mr. Foster, of Clinchwharton, in that neighbourhood, hav- 
ing been blind for some years of a gutta serena, was restored to 
sight by salivation ; and that upon his first beginning to see, all 
objects appeared to him double ; but afterwards the two appear- 
ances approaching by degrees, he came at last to see single, and 
as distinctly as he did before he was blind." 

Upon this case I observe, first, That it does not prove any 
change of the corresponding points of the eyes, unless we sup- 
pose, what is not affirmed, that Mr. Foster directed his eyes to 
the object at first, when he saw double, with the same accuracy, 
and in the same manner, that he did afterwards when he saw 
single. Secondly, If we should suppose this, no account can be 
given, why at first the two appearances should be seen at one 
certain angular distance rather than another : or why this angu- 
lar distance should gradually decrease, until at last the appear- 
ances coincided. How could this effect be produced by custom ? 
But, thirdly, Every circumstance of this case may be accounted 
for on the supposition that Mr. Foster had corresponding points 
in the retinae of his eyes from the time he began to see, and that 
custom made no change with regard . to them. We need only 
farther suppose, what is common in such cases, that by some 
years' blindness, he had lost the habit of directing his eyes accu- 
rately to an object, and that he gradually recovered this habit 
when he came to see. 

The second fact mentioned by Dr. Smith is taken from Mr. 
Cheselden's anatomy, and is this: " A gentleman who, from a 
blow on the head, had one eye distorted, found every object ap- 
pear double ; but by degrees the most familiar ones became 
single ; and in time all objects became so, without any amend- 
ment of the distortion." 

I observe here, that it is not said that the two appearances 
gradually approached, and at last united, without any amend- 
ment of the distortion. This would indeed have been a decisive 
proof of a change in the corresponding points of the retinae ; and 
yet of such a change as could not be accounted for from custom. 
But this is not said : and if it had been observed, a circumstance 
so remarkable would have been mentioned by Mr. Cheselden, as 
it was in the other case by Dr. Hepburn. We may therefore 



OF SEEING. Wi 

take it for granted, that one of the appearances vanished by 
degrees, without approaching to the other. And this, I con- 
ceive, might happen several ways. First, The sight of the dis- 
torted eye might gradually decay by the hurt : so the appearances 
presented by that eye would gradually vanish. Secondly, A 
small and unperceived change in the manner of directing the 
eyes, might occasion his not seeing the object with the distorted 
eye, as appears from sect. 15, art. 10. Thirdly, By acquiring the 
habit of directing one and the same eye always to the object, the 
faint and oblique appearance presented by the other eye, might 
be so little attended to when it became familiar, as not to be per- 
ceived. One of these causes, or more of them, concurring, might 
produce the effect mentioned, without any change of the corre- 
sponding points of the eyes. 

For these reasons, the facts mentioned by Dr. Smith, although 
curious, seem not to be decisive. 

The following facts ought to be put in the opposite scale : 
First, In the famous case of the young gentleman couched by 
Mr. Cheselden, after having had cataracts on both eyes until he 
was thirteen years of age, it appears, that he saw objects single 
from the time he began to see with both eyes. Mr. Cheselden's 
words are — " And now being lately couched of his other eye, 
he says, that objects at first appeared large to this eye, but not 
so large as they did at first to the other ; and looking upon the 
same object with both eyes, he thought it looked about twice as 
large as with the first couched eye only, but not double, that we 
can any ways discover." 

Secondly, The three young gentlemen mentioned in the last 
section, who had squinted, as far as I know, from infancy; as 
soon as they learned to direct both eyes to an object, saw it 
single. In these four cases it appears evident, that the centres 
of the retinae corresponded originally, and before custom could 
produce any such effect ; for Mr. Cheselden's young gentleman 
had never been accustomed to see at all before he was couched ; 
and the other three had never been accustomed to direct the axes 
of both eyes to the object. 

Thirdly, From the facts recited in sect. 13, it appears, that 
from the time we are capable of observing the phenomenon of 
single and double vision, custom makes no change in them. 

I have amused myself with such observations for more than 
thirty years ; and in every case wherein I saw the object double 
at first, I see it so to this day, notwithstanding the constant expe- 
rience of its being single. In other cases, where I know there 
are two objects, there appears only one, after thousands of expe- 
riments. 

Let a man look at a familiar object through a polyhedron or 

2u2 



532 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

multiplying-glass every hour of his life, the number of visible 
appearances will be the same at last as at first : nor does any 
number of experiments, or length of time, make the least 
change. 

Effects produced by habit, must vary according as the acts by 
which the habit is acquired are more or less frequent : but the 
phenomena of single and double vision are so invariable and 
uniform in all men, and so exactly regulated by mathematical 
rules, that I think we have good reason to conclude, that they 
are not the effect of custom, but of fixed and immutable laws of 
nature. 

XVIII. Of Dr. TorterfielaV s account of single and double 
vision. — Bishop Berkeley and Dr. Smith seem to attribute too 
much to custom in vision, Dr. Porterfield too little. 

This ingenious writer thinks that, by an original law of our 
nature, antecedent to custom and experience, we perceive visible 
objects in their true place, not only as to their direction, but 
likewise as to their distance from the eye ; and therefore he ac- 
counts for our seeing objects single, with two eyes, in this 
manner : Having the faculty of perceiving the object with each 
eye in its true place, we must perceive it with both eyes in the 
same place ; and consequently must perceive it single. 

He is aware, that this principle, although it accounts for our 
seeing objects single with two eyes, yet does not at all account 
for our seeing objects double: and whereas other writers on this 
subject take it to be a sufficient cause for double vision, that we 
have two eyes, and only find it difficult to assign a cause for 
single vision ; on the contrary, Dr. Porterfield's principle throws 
all the difficulty on the other side. 

Therefore, in order to account for the phenomena of double 
vision, he advances another principle, without signifying whe- 
ther he conceives it to be an original law of our nature, or the 
effect of custom. [It is — that our natural perception of the 
distance of objects from the eye, is not extended to all the ob- 
jects that fall within the field of vision, but limited to that which 
we directly look at ; and that the circumjacent objects, whatever 
be their real distance, are seen at the same distance with the 
object we look at, as if they were all in the surface of a sphere 
whereof the eye is the centre.] 

Thus, single vision is accounted for by our seeing the true 
distance of an object which we look at ; and double vision by a 
false appearance of distance in objects which we do not directly 
look at. 

We agree with this learned and ingenious author, that it is by 
a natural and original principle that we see visible objects in a 
certain direction from the eye, and honour him as the author of 



OF SEEING. 533 

this discovery : but we cannot assent to either of those prin- 
ciples by which he explains single and double vision, for the 
following reasons : — 

1. Our having a natural and original perception of the distance 
of objects from the eye, appears contrary to a well-attested fact ; 
for the young gentleman couched by Mr. Cheselden, imagined 
at first, that whatever he saw touched Iris eye, as what he felt 
touched his hand. 

2. The perception we have of the distance of objects from the 
eye, whether it be from nature or custom, is not so accurate and 
determinate as is necessary to produce single vision. A mistake 
of the twentieth or thirtieth part of the distance of a small ob- 
ject, such as a pin, ought, according to Dr. Porterfield's hypo- 
thesis, to make it appear double. Very few can judge of the 
distance of a visible object with such accuracy. Yet we never 
find double vision produced by mistaking the distance of the 
object. There are many cases in vision, even with the naked 
eye, wherein we mistake the distance of an object by one half or 
more : why do we see such objects single ? When I move my 
spectacles from my eyes toward a small object, two or three feet 
distant, the object seems to approach, so as to be seen at last at 
about half its real distance ; but it is seen single at that appa- 
rent distance, as well as when we see it with the naked eye at its 
real distance. And when we look at an object with a binocular 
telescope, properly fitted to the eyes, we see it single, while it 
appears fifteen or twenty times nearer than it is. There are then 
few cases wherein the distance of an object from the eye is seen 
so accurately as is necessary for single vision, upon this hypo- 
thesis : this seems to be a conclusive argument against the ac- 
count given of single vision. We find, likewise, that false judg- 
ments or fallacious appearances of the distance of an object, do 
not produce double vision. This seems to be a conclusive argu- 
ment against the account given of double vision. 

3. The perception we have of the linear distance of objects, 
seems to be wholly the effect of experience. This I think hath 
been proved by Bishop Berkeley and by Dr. Smith ; and when 
we come to point out the means of judging of distance by sight, 
it will appear that they are all furnished by experience. 

4. Supposing that by a law of our nature, the distance of 
objects from the eye were perceived most accurately, as well as 
their direction, it will not follow that we must see the object 
single. Let us consider what means such a law of nature would 
furnish for resolving the question, Whether the objects of the 
two eyes are in one and the same place, and consequently are 
not two, but one ? 

Suppose then two right lines, one drawn from the centre of 
one eye to its object, the other drawn, in like manner, from the 



534 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

centre of the other eye to its object. This law of nature gives 
us the direction or position of each of these right lines, and the 
length of each ; and this is all that it gives. These are geome- 
trical data, and we may learn from geometry what is determined 
by their means. Is it then determined by these data, whether 
the two right lines terminate in one and the same point, or not ? 
No, truly. In order to determine this, we must have three other 
data. We must know whether the two right lines are in one 
plane : we must know what angle they make : and we must 
know the distance between the centres of the eyes. And when 
these things are known, we must apply the rules of trigonometry, 
before we can resolve the question, whether the objects of the 
two eyes are in one and the same place ? and consequently whe- 
ther they are two or one ? 

5. That false appearance of distance into which double vision 
is resolved, cannot be the effect of custom ; for constant expe- 
rience contradicts it : neither hath it the features of a law of 
nature ; because it does not answer any good purpose, nor indeed 
any purpose at all but to deceive us. But why should we seek 
for arguments, in a question concerning what appears to us, or 
does not appear ? The question is, at what distances do the 
objects presently in my eye appear ? Do they all appear at one 
distance, as if placed in the concave surface of a sphere, the eye 
being in the centre ? Every man surely may know this with 
certainty ; and, if he will but give attention to the testimony of 
his eyes, needs not ask a philosopher, how visible objects appear 
to him. Now, it is very true, that if I look up to a star in the 
heavens, the other stars that appear at the same time, do appear 
in this manner : yet this phenomenon does not favour Dr. Por- 
terfield's hypothesis ; for the stars and heavenly bodies do not 
appear at their true distances when we look directly to them, 
any more than when they are seen obliquely : and if this pheno- 
menon be an argument for Dr. Porterfield's second principle, it 
must destroy the first. 

The true cause of this phenomenon will be given afterwards ; 
therefore setting it aside for the present, let us put another case. 
1 sit presently in my room, and direct my eyes to the door, which 
appears to be about sixteen feet distant : at the same time I see 
many other objects faintly and obliquely ; the floor, floor-cloth, 
the table which I write upon, papers, standish, candle, &c. Now, 
do all these objects appear at the same distance of sixteen feet ? 
Upon the closest attention, I find they do not. 

XIX. Of Dr. Briggss theory, and Sir Isaac Newtoris con- 
jecture on this subject. — I am afraid the reader, as well as the 
writer, is already tired of the subject of single and double vision. 
The multitude of theories advanced by authors of great name, 
and the multitude of facts, observed without sufficient skill in 



OF SEEING. 535 

optics, or related without attention to the most material and 
decisive circumstances, have equally contributed to perplex it. 

In order to bring it to some issue, I have, in the 13th section, 
given a more full and regular deduction than had been given 
heretofore, of the phenomena of single and double vision, in those 
whose sight is perfect ; and have traced them up to one general 
principle, which appears to be a law of vision in human eyes that 
are perfect and in their natural state. 

In the 14th section I have made it appear, that this law of 
vision, although excellently adapted to the fabric of human eyes, 
cannot answer the purposes of vision in some other animals ; and 
therefore, very probably, is not common to all animals. The 
purpose of the 15th and 16th sections is, to inquire, whether 
there be any deviation from this law of vision in those who 
squint ? a question which is of real importance in the medical 
art, as well as in the philosophy of vision ; but which, after all 
that hath been observed and written on the subject, seems not to 
be ripe for a determination, for want of proper observations. 
Those who have had skill to make proper observations, have 
wanted opportunities ; and those who have had the opportunities, 
have wanted skill or attention. I have therefore thought it worth 
while to give a distinct account of the observations necessary for 
the determination of this question, and what conclusions may be 
drawn from the facts observed. I have likewise collected, and 
set in one view, the most conclusive facts that have occurred in 
authors, or have fallen under my own observation. 

It must be confessed that these facts, when applied to the 
question in hand, make a very poor figure ; and the gentlemen 
of the medical faculty are called upon, for the honour of their 
profession, and for the benefit of mankind, to add to them. 

All the medical, and all the optical writers, upon the strabis- 
mus, that I have met with, except Dr. Jurin, either affirm, or 
take it for granted, that squinting persons see the object with 
both eyes, and yet see it single. Dr. Jurin affirms, that squint- 
ing persons never see the object with both eyes ; and that if they 
did, they would see it double. If the common opinion be true, 
the cure of a squint would be as pernicious to the sight of the 
patient, as the causing of a permanent squint would be to one 
who naturally had no squint : and therefore no physician ought 
to attempt such a cure ; no patient ought to submit to it. But 
if Dr. Jurin's opinion be true, most young people that squint 
may cure themselves, by taking some pains ; and may not only 
remove the deformity, but at the same time improve their sight. 
If the common opinion be true, the centres and other points of 
the two retinas in squinting persons do not correspond as in other 
men, and nature in them deviates from her common rule. But 
if Dr. Jurin's opinion be true, there is reason to think, that the 






536 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

same general law of vision which we have found in perfect human 
eyes, extends also to those which squint. 

It is impossible to determine, by reasoning, which of these 
opinions is true ; or whether one may not be found true in some 
patients, and the other in others. Here, experience and obser- 
vation are our only guides ; and a deduction of instances is the 
only rational argument. It might therefore have been expected, 
that the patrons of the contrary opinions should have given 
instances in support of them that are clear and indisputable : but 
I have not found one such instance on either side of the ques- 
tion, in all the authors I have met with. I have given three 
instances from my own observation, in confirmation of Dr. Jurin's 
opinion, which admit of no doubt ; and one which leans rather 
to the other opinion, but is dubious. And here I must leave the 
matter to further observation. 

In the 17th section, I have endeavoured to show, that the cor- 
respondence and sympathy of certain points of the two retinae, 
into which we have resolved all the phenomena of single and 
double vision, is not, as Dr. Smith conceived, the effect of custom, 
nor can be changed by custom, but is a natural and original pro- 
perty of human eyes : and in the last section, that it is not owing 
to an original and natural perception of the true distance of 
objects from the eye, as Dr. Porterfield imagined. After this 
recapitulation, which is intended to relieve the attention of the 
reader, shall we enter into more theories upon this subject ? 

That of Dr. Briggs, first published in English, in the " Philo- 
sophical Transactions," afterwards in Latin, under the title of 
" Nova visionis theoria," with a prefatory epistle of Sir Isaac 
Newton to the author, amounts to this, that the fibres of the 
optic nerves passing from corresponding points of the retinae to 
the thalami nervorum opticorum, having the same length, the 
same tension, and a similar situation, will have the same tone ; 
and therefore their vibrations excited by the impression of the 
rays of light will be like unisons in music, and will present one 
and the same image to the mind : but the fibres passing from 
parts of the retinae which do not correspond, having different 
tensions and tones, will have discordant vibrations ; and therefore 
present different images to the mind. 

I shall not enter upon a particular examination of this theory. 
It is enough to observe in general, that it is a system of conjec- 
tures concerning things of which we are entirely ignorant ; and 
that all such theories in philosophy deserve rather to be laughed 
at, than to be seriously refuted. 

From the first dawn of philosophy to this day, it hath been 
believed that the optic nerves are intended to carry the images of 
visible objects from the bottom of the eye to the mind ; and that 
the nerves belonging to the organs of the other senses have a 



OF SEEING. 537 

like office. But how do we know this ? we conjecture it : and 
taking this conjecture for a truth, we consider how the nerves 
may best answer this purpose. The system of the nerves, for 
many ages, was taken to be an hydraulic engine, consisting of a 
bundle of pipes which carry to and fro a liquor called animal 
spirits. About the time of Dr. Briggs, it was thought rather to 
be a stringed instrument, composed of vibrating chords, each of 
which had its proper tension and tone. But some, with as great 
probability, conceived it to be a wind instrument, which played 
its part by the vibrations of an elastic ether in the nervous fibrils. 

These, I think, are all the engines into which the nervous sys- 
tem hath been moulded by philosophers, for conveying the 
images of sensible things from the organ to the sensorium. And 
for all that we know of the matter, every man may freely choose 
which he thinks fittest for the purpose ; for from fact and 
experiment no one of them can claim preference to another. 
Indeed they all seem so unhandy engines for carrying images, 
that a man would be tempted to invent a new one. 

Since, therefore, a blind man may guess as well in the dark as 
one that sees, I beg leave to offer another conjecture touching 
the nervous system, which I hope will answer the purpose as well 
as those we have mentioned, and which recommends itself by its 
simplicity. Why may not the optic nerves, for instance, be made 
up of empty tubes, opening their mouths wide enough to receive 
the rays of light which form the image upon the retina, and 
gently conveying them safe, and in their proper order, to the 
very seat of the soul, until they flash in her face ? It is easy for 
an ingenious philosopher to fit the caliber of these empty tubes 
to the diameter of the particles of light, so as they shall receive 
no grosser kind of matter. And if these rays should be in danger 
of mistaking their way, an expedient may also be found to pre- 
vent this. For it requires no more than to bestow upon the 
tubes of the nervous system a peristaltic motion, like that of the 
alimentary tube. 

It is a peculiar advantage of this hypothesis, that although all 
philosophers believe that the species or images of things are con- 
veyed by the nerves to the soul, yet none of their hypotheses 
show how this may be done. For how can the images of sound, 
taste, smell, colour, figure, and all sensible qualities, be made out 
of the vibrations of musical chords, or the undulations of animal 
spirits, or of ether ? We ought not to suppose means inadequate 
to the end. Is it not as philosophical, and more intelligible, to 
conceive, that as the stomach receives its food, so the soul receives 
her images by a kind of nervous deglutition ? I might add, that 
we need only continue this peristaltic motion of the nervous tubes 
from the sensorium to the extremities of the nerves that serve 
the muscles, in order to account for muscular motion. 









538 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

Thus nature will be consonant to herself; and as sensation 
will be the conveyance of the ideal aliment to the mind, so mus- 
cular motion will be the expulsion of the recrementitious part of 
it. For who can deny, that the images of things conveyed by 
sensation, may, after due concoction, become fit to be thrown off 
by muscular motion ? I only give hints of these things to the 
ingenious, hoping that in time this hypothesis may be wrought 
up into a system as truly philosophical, as that of animal spirits, 
or the vibration of nervous fibres. 

To be serious : in the operations of nature, I hold the theories 
of a philosopher, which are unsupported by fact, in the same 
estimation with the dreams of a man asleep, or the ravings of a 
madman. We laugh at the Indian philosopher, who, to account 
for the support of the earth, contrived the hypothesis of a huge 
elephant, and to support the elephant, a huge tortoise. If we 
will candidly confess the truth, we know as little of the operation 
of the nerves, as he did of the manner in which the earth is sup- 
ported ; and our hypotheses about animal spirits, or about the 
tension and vibrations of the nerves, are as like to be true, as his 
about the support of the earth. His elephant was an hypothesis, 
and our hypotheses are elephants. Every theory in philosophy 
which is built on pure conjecture is an elephant ; and every theory 
that is supported partly by fact, and partly by conjecture, is like 
Nebuchadnezzar's image, whose feet were partly of iron, and 
partly of clay. 

The great Newton first gave an example to philosophers, which 
always ought to be, but rarely hath been, followed, by distin- 
guishing his conjectures from his conclusions, and putting the 
former by themselves, in the modest form of queries. This is 
fair and legal ; but all other philosophical traffic in conjecture, 
ought to be held contraband and illicit. Indeed his conjectures 
have commonly more foundation in fact, and more verisimilitude, 
than the dogmatical theories of most other philosophers ; and 
therefore we ought not to omit that which he hath offered con- 
cerning the cause of our seeing objects single with two eyes, in 
the 15th query annexed to his " Optics." 

" Are not the species of objects seen with both eyes, united 
where the optic nerves meet before they come into the brain, 
the fibres on the right side of both nerves uniting there, and 
after union going thence into the brain in the nerve which is on 
the right side of the head, and the fibres on the left side of both 
nerves uniting in the same place, and after union going into the 
brain in the nerve which is on the left side of the head, and these 
two nerves meeting in the brain in such a manner that their 
fibres make but one entire species or picture, half of which on 
the right side of the sensorium comes from the right side of both 
eyes through the right side of both optic nerves to the place 



OF SEEING. 539 

where the nerves meet, and from thence on the right side of the 
head into the brain, and the other half on the left side of the 
sensorium comes in like manner from the left side of both eyes ? 
For the optic nerves of such animals as look the same way with 
both eyes (as men, dogs, sheep, oxen, &c.) meet before they 
come into the brain : but the optic nerves of such animals as do 
not look the same way with both eyes (as of fishes and of the 
chameleon) do not meet, if I am rightly informed." 

I beg leave to distinguish this query into two, which are of 
very different natures: one being purely anatomical, the other 
relating to the carrying species or pictures of visible objects to 
the sensorium. 

The first question is, Whether the fibres coming from corres- 
ponding points of the two retinae, do not unite at the place where 
the optic nerves meet, and continue united from thence to the 
brain ; so that the right optic nerve, after the meeting of the 
two nerves, is composed of the fibres coming from the right side 
of both retinae, and the left, of the fibres coming from the left 
side of both retinae. 

This is undoubtedly a curious and rational question, because 
if we could find ground from anatomy to answer it in the affirm- 
ative, it would lead us a step forward in discovering the cause of 
the correspondence and sympathy which there is between certain 
points of the two retinae. For although we know not what is 
the particular function of the optic nerves, yet it is probable 
that some impression made upon them, and communicated along 
their fibres, is necessary to vision : and whatever be the nature 
of this impression, if two fibres are united into one, an impression 
made upon one of them, or upon both, may probably produce 
the same effect. Anatomists think it a sufficient account of a 
sympathy between two parts of the body, when they are served 
by branches of the same nerve ; we should therefore look upon 
it as an important discovery in anatomy, if it were found that 
the same nerve sent branches to the corresponding points of the 
retinae. 

But hath any such discovery been made ? No, not so much as 
in one subject, as far as I can learn. But in several subjects, 
the contrary seems to have been discovered. Dr. Porterfi eld hath 
given us two cases at length from Vesalius, and one from Caesal- 
pinus, wherein the optic nerves, after touching one another as 
usual, appeared to be reflected back to the same side whence 
they came, without any mixture of their fibres. Each of these 
persons had lost an eye some time before his death, and the optic 
nerve belonging to that eye was shrunk, so that it could be 
distinguished from the other at the place where they met. An- 
other case which the same author gives from Vesalius, is still 
more remarkable ; for in it the optic nerves did not touch at all; 



540 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

and yet, upon inquiry, those who were most familiar with the 
person in his lifetime, declared that he never complained of any 
defect of sight, or of his seeing objects double. Diemerbroek 
tells us, that Aquapendens and Valverda likewise affirm, that 
they have met with subjects wherein the optic nerves did not 
touch. 

As these observations were made before Sir Isaac Newton put 
this query, it is uncertain whether he was ignorant of them, or 
whether he suspected some inaccuracy in them, and desired that 
the matter might be more carefully examined. But from the 
following passage of the most accurate Winslow, it does not ap- 
pear that later observations have been more favourable to his 
conjecture. " The union of these [optic] nerves, by the small 
curvatures of their cornua, is very difficult to be unfolded in 
human bodies. This union is commonly found to be very close, 
but in some subjects it seems to be no more than a strong adhe- 
sion, in others to be partly made by an intersection or crossing 
of fibres. They have been found quite separate ; and in other 
subjects, one of them has been found to be very much altered 
both in size and colour through its whole passage, the other 
remaining in its natural state." 

When we consider this conjecture of Sir Isaac Newton by 
itself, it appears more ingenious, and to have more verisimilitude, 
than any thing that has been offered upon the subject; and we 
admire the caution and modesty of the author, in proposing it 
only as a subject of inquiry : but when we compare it with the 
observations of anatomists which contradict it, we are naturally 
led to this reflection, That if we trust to the conjectures of men 
of the greatest genius in the operations of nature, we have only 
the chance of going wrong in an ingenious manner. 

The second part of the query is, Whether the two species of 
objects from the two eyes are not, at the place where the optic 
nerves meet, united into one species or picture, half of which is 
carried thence to the sensorium in the right optic nerve, and the 
other half in the left ? and whether these two halves are not so 
put together again at the sensorium, as to make one species or 
picture ? 

Here it seems natural to put the previous question, What 
reason have we to believe, that pictures of objects are at all car- 
ried to the sensorium, either by the optic nerves, or by any other 
nerves ? Is it not possible, that this great philosopher, as well as 
many of a lower form, having been led into this opinion at first 
by education, may have continued in it, because he never thought 
of calling it in question ? I confess this was my own case for a 
considerable part of my life. But since I was led by accident to 
think seriously what reason I had to believe it, I could find none 
at all. It seems to be a mere hypothesis, as much as the Indian 



OF SEEING. 541 

philosopher's elephant. I am not conscious of any pictures of 
external objects in my sensorium, any more than in my stomach: 
the things which I perceive by my senses, appear to be external, 
and not in any part of the brain ; and my sensations properly so 
called, have no resemblance of external objects. 

[The conclusion from all that hath been said, in no less than 
seven sections, upon our seeing objects single with two eyes, is 
this, That, by an original property of human eyes, objects painted 
upon the centres of the two retinae, or upon points similarly si- 
tuate with regard to the centres, appear in the same visible place ; 
that the most plausible attempts to account for this property of 
the eyes, have been unsuccessful ; and therefore, that it must be 
either a primary law of our constitution, or the consequence of 
some more general law which is not yet discovered.] 

We have now finished what we intended to say, both of the 
visible appearances of things to the eye, and of the laws of our 
constitution by which those appearances are exhibited. But it 
was observed in the beginning of this chapter, that the visible 
appearances of objects serve only as signs of their distance, mag- 
nitude, figure, and other tangible qualities. The visible appear- 
ance is that which is presented to the mind, by nature, according 
to those laws of our constitution which have been explained. But 
the thing signified by that appearance, is that which is presented 
to the mind by custom. 

When one speaks to us in a language that is familiar, we hear 
certain sounds, and this is all the effect that his discourse has upon 
us by nature : but by custom we understand the meaning of 
these sounds, and therefore we fix our attention, not upon the 
sounds, but upon the things signified by them. In like manner, 
we see only the visible appearance of objects by nature ; but we 
learn by custom to interpret these appearances, and to under- 
stand their meaning. And when this visual language is learned, 
and becomes familiar, we attend only to the things signified ; 
and cannot, without great difficulty, attend to the signs by which 
they are presented. The mind passes from one to the other so 
rapidly and so familiarly, that no trace of the sign is left in the 
memory, and we seem immediately, and without the intervention 
of any sign, to perceive the thing signified. 

ggF When I look at the apple-tree which stands before my 
window, I perceive at the first glance its distance and magni- 
tude, the roughness of its trunk, the disposition of its branches, 
the figure of its leaves and fruit. I seem to perceive all these 
things immediately. The visible appearance which presented 
them all to the mind, has entirely escaped me ; I cannot, with- 
out great difficulty, and painful abstraction, attend to it, even 
when it stands before me. Yet it is certain that this visible ap- 
pearance only is presented to my eye by nature, and that I 









542 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

learned by custom to collect all the rest from it. If I had never 
seen before now, I should not perceive either the distance or 
tangible figure of the tree, and it would have required the prac- 
tice of seeing for many months, to change that original percep- 
tion which nature gave me by my eyes, into that which I now 
have by custom. 

[The objects which we see naturally and originally, as hath 
been before observed, have length and breadth, but no thickness 
nor distance from the eye. Custom, by a kind of legerdemain, 
withdraws gradually these original and proper objects of sight, 
and substitutes in their place objects of touch, which have length, 
breadth, and thickness, and a determinate distance from the eye.] 
By what means this change is brought about, and what princi- 
ples of the human mind concur in it, we are next to inquire. 

XX. Of perception in general. — Sensation and the percep- 
tion of external objects by the senses, though very different in 
their nature, have commonly been considered as one and the 
same thing. The purposes of common life do not make it 
necessary to distinguish them, and the received opinions of phi- 
losophers, tend rather to confound them : but without attend- 
ing carefully to this distinction, it is impossible to have any just 
conception of the operations of our senses. The most simple 
operations of the mind admit not of a logical definition : all we 
can do is to describe them, so as to lead those who are conscious 
of them in themselves, to attend to them, and reflect upon them : 
and it is often very difficult to describe them so as to answer this 
intention. 

The same mode of expression is used to denote sensation and 
perception ; and therefore we are apt to look upon them as 
things of the same nature. Thus, / feel a pain ; I see a tree : 
the first denoteth a sensation, the last a perception. The gram- 
matical analysis of both expressions is the same : for both consist 
of an active verb and an object. But if we attend to the thing 
signified by these expressions, we shall find that in the first, 
the distinction between the act and the object is not real, but 
grammatical ; in the second, the distinction is not only gramma- 
tical but real. 

The form of the expression, I feel pain, might seem to im- 
ply that the feeling is something distinct from the pain felt ; 
yet, in reality, there is no distinction. As thinking a thought, 
is an expression which could signify no more than thinking, so 
feeling a pain signifies no more than being pained. What we 
have said of pain is applicable to every other mere sensation. 
It is difficult to give instances, very few of our sensations having 
names ; and where they have, the name being common to the 
sensation, and to something else which is associated with it. But 
when we attend to the sensation by itself, and separate it from 



OF SEEING. 54,3 

other things which are conjoined with it in the imagination, it 
appears to be something which can have no existence but in a 
sentient mind, no distinction from the act of the mind by which 
it is felt. 

Perception, as we here understand it, hath always an object 
distinct from the act by which it is perceived; an object which 
may exist whether it be perceived or not. I perceive a tree that 
grows before my window ; there is here an object which is per- 
ceived ; and an act of the mind by which it is perceived ; and these 
two are not only distinguishable, but they are extremely unlike 
in their natures. The object is made up of a trunk, branches 
and leaves ; but the act of the mind by which it is perceived, 
hath neither trunk, branches, nor leaves. I am conscious of this 
act of my mind and I can reflect upon it ; but it is too simple 
to admit of an analysis, and I cannot find proper words to describe 
it. I find nothing that resembles it so much as the remem- 
brance of the tree, or the imagination of it. Yet both these 
differ essentially from perception ; they differ likewise one from 
another. It is in vain that a philosopher assures me that the 
imagination of the tree, the remembrance of it, and the percep- 
tion of it, are all one, and differ only in degree of vivacity. I 
know the contrary ; for I am as well acquainted with all the 
three, as I am with the apartments of my own house. I know 
this also, that the perception of an object implies both a concep- 
tion of its form, and a belief of its present existence. I know, 
moreover, that this belief is not the effect of argumentation and 
reasoning ; it is the immediate effect of my constitution. 

[I am aware that this belief which I have in perception, stands 
exposed to the strongest batteries of scepticism.] But they make 
no great impression upon it. The sceptic asks me, Why do you 
believe the existence of the external object which you perceive ? 
This belief, Sir, is none of my manufacture ; it came from the 
mint of nature ; it bears her image and superscription ; and if it 
is not right, the fault is not mine : I even took it upon trust, 
and without suspicion. Reason, says the sceptic, is the only 
judge of truth, and you ought to throw off every opinion and 
every belief that is not grounded on reason. Why, Sir, should 
I believe the faculty of reason more than that of perception ? they 
came both out of the same shop, and were made by the same 
artist; and if he puts one piece of false ware into my hands, what 
should hinder him from putting another ? 

Perhaps the sceptic will agree to distrust reason, rather than 
give any credit to perception. For, says he, since by your own 
concession, the object which you perceive, and that act of your 
mind by which you perceive it, are quite different things, the 
one may exist without the other ; and as the object may exist 
without being perceived, so the perception may be without an 









544 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

object. There is nothing so shameful in a philosopher as to be 
deceived and deluded-; and therefore you ought to resolve firmly 
to withhold assent, and to throw off this belief of external ob- 
jects, which may be all delusion. For my part, I will never at- 
tempt to throw it off; and although the sober part of mankind 
will not be very anxious to know my reasons, yet if they can be 
of use to any sceptic, they are these : — - 

First, Because it is not in my power : why then should I make 
a vain attempt ? It would be agreeable to fly to the moon, and 
to make a visit to Jupiter and Saturn : but when I know that 
nature has bound me down by the law of gravitation to this 
planet which I inhabit, I rest contented, and quietly suffer my- 
self to be carried along in its orbit. My belief is carried along 
by perception, as irresistibly as my body by the earth. And the 
greatest sceptic will find himself to be in the same condition. 
He may struggle hard to disbelieve the informations of his senses, 
as a man does to swim against a torrent ; but ah ! it is in vain. 
It is in vain that he strains every nerve, and wrestles with nature, 
and with every object that strikes upon his senses. For after all, 
when his strength is spent in the fruitless attempt, he will be 
carried down the torrent with the common herd of believers. 

Secondly, I think it would not be prudent to throw off this 
belief, if it were in my power. If nature intended to deceive 
me, and impose upon me by false appearances, and I, by my great 
cunning and profound logic, have discovered the imposture ; pru- 
dence would dictate to me in this case, even to put up with this in- 
dignity done me, as quietly as I could, and not to call her an im- 
postor to her face, lest she should be even with me in another 
way. For what do I gain by resenting this injury ? You ought 
at least not to believe what she says. This, indeed, seems rea- 
sonable, if she intends to impose upon me. But what is the 
consequence ? I resolve not to believe my senses. I break my 
nose against a post that comes in my way ; I step into a dirty 
kennel ; and after twenty such wise and rational actions, I am 
taken up and clapped into a madhouse. Now I confess I would 
rather make one of the credulous fools whom nature imposes 
upon, than of those wise and rational philosophers who resolve 
to withhold assent at all this expense. If a man pretends to be 
a sceptic with regard to the informations of sense, and yet pru- 
dently keeps out of harm's way as other men do, he must excuse 
my suspicion, that he either acts the hypocrite, or imposes upon 
himself. For if the scale of his belief were so evenly poised, as to 
lean no more to one side than to the contrary, it is impossible 
that his actions could be directed by any rules of common pru- 
dence. 

Thirdly, Although the two reasons already mentioned are per- 
haps two more than enough, I shall offer a third. I gave implicit 



OF SEEING. 545 

belief to the informations of nature by my senses, for a consider- 
able part of my life, before I had learned so much logic as to be 
able to start a doubt concerning them. And now, when I re- 
flect upon what is past, I do not find that I have been imposed 
upon by this belief. I find, that without it I must have perished 
by a thousand accidents. I find, that without it I should have 
been no wiser now than when I was born. I should not even 
have been able to acquire that logic which suggests these sceptical 
doubts with regard to my senses. Therefore, I consider this 
instinctive belief as one of the best gifts of nature. I thank the 
Author of my being who bestowed it upon me, before the eyes of 
my reason were opened, and still bestows it upon me to be my 
guide, where reason leaves me in the dark. And now I yield to 
the direction of my senses, not from instinct only, but from con- 
fidence and trust in a faithful and beneficent Monitor, grounded 
upon the experience of his paternal care and goodness. 

In all this, I deal with the Author of my being, no otherwise 
than I thought it reasonable to deal with my parents and tutors. 
I believed by instinct whatever they told me, long before I had 
the idea of a lie, or thought of the possibility of their deceiving 
me. Afterwards, upon reflection, I found they had acted like 
fair and honest people who wished me well. 1 found, that if I 
had not believed what they told me, before I could give a reason 
of my belief, I had to this day been little better than a change- 
ling. And although this natural credulity hath sometimes occa- 
sioned my being imposed upon by deceivers, yet it hath been of 
infinite advantage to me upon the whole ; therefore I consider it 
as another good gift of nature. And I continue to give that 
credit, from reflection, to those of whose integrity and veracity 
I have had experience, which before I gave from instinct. 

[There is a much greater similitude than is commonly ima- 
gined, between the testimony of nature given by our senses, and 
the testimony of men given by language. The credit we give to 
both is at first the effect of instinct only.] When we grow up, 
and begin to reason about them, the credit given to human testi- 
mony is restrained and weakened by the experience we have of 
deceit. But the credit given to the testimony of our senses, is 
established and confirmed by the uniformity and constancy of 
the laws of nature. 

[Our perceptions are of two kinds : some are natural and ori- 
ginal; others acquired, and the fruit of experience.] When I 
perceive that this is the taste of cyder, that of brandy ; that this 
is the smell of an apple, that of an orange ; that this is the noise 
of thunder, that the ringing of bells ; this the sound of a coach 
passing, that the voice of such a friend ; these perceptions, and 
others of the same kind, are not original, they are acquired. But 
the perception which I have by touch of the hardness and soft- 

2 N 









546 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

ness of bodies, of their extension, figure, and motion, is not 
acquired, it is original. 

In all our senses, the acquired perceptions are many more than 
the original, especially in sight. By this sense we perceive ori- 
ginally the visible figure and colour of bodies only, and their 
visible place : but we learn to perceive by the eye, almost every 
thing which we can perceive by touch. The original perceptions 
of this sense, serve only as signs to introduce the acquired. 

The signs by which objects are presented to us in perception, 
are the language of nature to man ; and as in many respects it 
hath great affinity with the language of man to man, so particu- 
larly in this, that both are partly natural and original, partly 
acquired by custom. Our original or natural perceptions are 
analogous to the natural language of man to man, of which we 
took notice in the fourth chapter ; and our acquired perceptions 
are analogous to artificial language, which, in our mother-tongue, 
is got very much in the same manner with our acquired percep- 
tions, as we shall afterwards more fully explain. 

B^T Not only men, but children, idiots, and brutes, acquire by 
habit many perceptions which they had not originally. Almost 
every employment in life hath perceptions of this kind, that are 
peculiar to it. The shepherd knows every sheep of his flock, 
as we do our acquaintance, and can pick them out of another 
flock, one by one. The butcher knows by sight the weight and 
quality of his beeves and sheep before they are killed. The 
farmer perceives by his eye, very nearly, the quantity of hay in 
a rick, or of corn in a heap. The sailor sees the burthen, the 
build, and the distance of a ship at sea, while she is a great way 
off. Every man accustomed to writing, distinguishes his ac- 
quaintance by their handwriting, as he does by their faces. And 
the painter distinguishes, in the works of his art, the style of all 
the great masters. In a word, acquired perception is very dif- 
ferent in different persons, according to the diversity of objects 
about which they are employed, and the application they bestow 
in observing them. 

[Perception ought not only to be distinguished from sensation, 
but likewise from that knowledge of the objects of sense which 
is got by reasoning. There is no reasoning in perception, as hath 
been observed. The belief which is implied in it, is the effect 
of instinct'] But there are many things with regard to sensible 
objects which we can infer from what we perceive ; and such con- 
clusions of reason ought to be distinguished from what is merely 
perceived. When I look at the moon, I perceive her to be some- 
times circular, sometimes horned, and sometimes gibbous. This 
is simple perception, and is the same in the philosopher and in 
the clown : but from these various appearances of her enlightened 
part, I infer that she is really of a spherical figure. This con- 



OF SEEING. 547 

elusion is not obtained by simple perception, but by reasoning. 
Simple perception has the same relation to the conclusions of 
reason drawn from our perceptions, as the axioms in mathema- 
tics have to the propositions. I cannot demonstrate, that two 
quantities which are equal to the same quantity, are equal to 
each other ; neither can I demonstrate, that the tree which I 
perceive exists. But, by the constitution of my nature, my be- 
lief is irresistibly carried along by my apprehension of the axiom ; 
and, by the constitution of my nature, my belief is no less irre- 
sistibly carried along by my perception of the tree. All rea- 
soning is from principles. The first principles of mathematical 
reasoning are mathematical axioms and definitions ; and the first 
principles of all our reasoning about existences, are our percep- 
tions. The first principles of every kind of reasoning are given 
us by nature, and are of equal authority with the faculty of 
reason itself, which is also the gift of nature. The conclusions 
of reason are all built upon first principles, and can have no other 
foundation. Most justly, therefore, do such principles disdain 
to be tried, by reason, and laugh at all the artillery of the logi- 
cian, when it is directed against them. 

When a long train of reasoning is necessary, in demonstrating 
a mathematical proposition, it is easily distinguished from an 
axiom, and they seem to be things of a very different nature. 
But there are some propositions which lie so near to axioms, that 
it is difficult to say, whether they ought to be held as axioms, or 
demonstrated as propositions. The same thing holds with regard 
to perception, and the conclusions drawn from it. Some of these 
conclusions follow our perceptions so easily, and are so imme- 
diately connected with them, that it is difficult to fix the limit 
which divides the one from the other. 

Perception, whether original or acquired, implies no exercise 
of reason, and is common to men, children, idiots, and brutes. 
The more obvious conclusions drawn from our perceptions by 
reason, make what we call common understanding ; by which men 
conduct themselves in the common affairs of life, and by which 
they are distinguished from idiots. The more remote conclu- 
sions which are drawn from our perceptions by reason, make 
what we commonly call science in the various parts of nature, 
whether in agriculture, medicine, mechanics, or in any part of 
natural philosophy. When I see a garden in good order, con- 
taining a great variety of things of the best kinds, and in the 
most flourishing condition, I immediately conclude from these 
signs, the skill and industry of the gardener. A farmer, when 
he rises in the morning, and perceives that the neighbouring 
brook overflows his field, concludes that a great deal of rain hath 
fallen in the night. Perceiving his fence broken, and his corn 
trodden down, he concludes that some of his own or his neigh- 

2x2 









54<8 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

hours' cattle have broke loose. Perceiving that his stable-door 
is broke open, and some of his horses gone, he concludes that a 
thief has carried them off. He traces the prints of his horse's 
feet in the soft ground, and by them discovers which road the 
thief hath taken. These are instances of common understanding, 
which dwells so near to perception, that it is difficult to trace the 
line which divides the one from the other. In like manner, the 
science of nature dwells so near to common understanding, that 
we cannot discern where the latter ends and the former begins. 
I perceive that bodies lighter than water swim in water, and that 
those which are heavier sink. Hence I conclude, that if a body 
remains wherever it is put under water, whether at the top or 
bottom, it is precisely of the same weight with water. If it will 
rest only when part of it is above water, it is lighter than water. 
And the greater the part above water is, compared with the 
whole, the lighter is the body. If it had no gravity at all, it 
w T ould make no impression upon the water, but stand wholly 
above it. Thus every man, by common understanding, has a rule 
by which he judges of the specific gravity of bodies which swim 
in water ; and a step or two more leads him into the science of 
hydrostatics. 

All that we know of nature, or of existences, may be compared 
to a tree, which hath its root, trunk, and branches. In this tree 
of knowledge, perception is the root, common understanding is 
the trunk, and the sciences are the branches. 
• XXI, Of the process of nature in perception. — Although 
there is no reasoning in perception, yet there are certain means 
and instruments, which, by the appointment of nature, must 
intervene between the object and our perception of it ; and by 
these, our perceptions are limited and regulated. First, If the 
object is not in contact with the organ of sense, there must be 
some medium which passes between them. Thus, in vision, the 
rays of light ; in hearing, the vibrations of elastic air ; in smell- 
ing, the effluvia of the body smelt, must pass from the object to 
the organ ; otherwise we have no perception. Secondly, There 
must be some action or impression upon the organ of sense, either 
by the immediate application of the object, or by the medium 
that goes between them. Thirdly, The nerves which go from 
the brain to the organ, must receive some impression by means 
of that which was made upon the organ ; and probably, by means 
of the nerves, some impression must be made upon the brain. 
Fourthly, The impression made upon the organ, nerves, and 
brain, is followed by a sensation. And, last of all, this sensation 
is followed by the perception of the object. 

Thus our perception of objects is the result of a train of ope- 
rations ; some of which affect the body only, others affect the 
mind. We know very little of the nature of some of these ope- 



OF SEEING. 549 

rations ; we know not at all how they are connected together, or 
in what way they contribute to that perception which is the result 
of the whole : but by the laws of our constitution, we perceive 
objects in this, and in no other way. 

There may be other beings, who can perceive external objects 
without rays of light, or vibrations of air, or effluvia of bodies ; 
without impressions on bodily organs, or even without sensa- 
tions : but we are so framed by the Author of nature, that even 
when we are surrounded by external objects, we may perceive 
none of them. Our faculty of perceiving an object lies dor- 
mant, until it is roused and stimulated by a certain corresponding 
sensation. Nor is this sensation always at hand to perform its 
office ; for it enters into the mind only in consequence of a cer- 
tain corresponding impression made on the organ of sense by the 
object. 

Let us trace this correspondence of impressions, sensations, 
and perceptions, as far as we can ; beginning with that which is 
first in order, the impression made upon the bodily organ. But, 
alas ! we know not of what nature these impressions are, far less 
how they excite sensations in the mind. 

We know that one body may act upon another by pressure, 
by percussion, by attraction, by repulsion, and probably in 
many other ways which we neither know, nor have names to 
express. But in which of these ways objects, when perceived by 
us, act upon the organs of sense, these organs upon the nerves, 
and the nerves upon the brain, we know not. Can any man tell 
me how, in vision, the rays of light act upon the retina, how 
the retina acts upon the optic nerve, and how the optic nerve 
acts upon the brain ? No man can. When I feel the pain of the 
gout in my toe, I know that there is some unusual impression 
made upon that part of my body. But of what kind is it ? Are 
the small vessels distended with some redundant elastic or un- 
elastic fluid ? Are the fibres unusually stretched ? Are they 
torn asunder by force, or gnawed and corroded by some acrid 
humour ? I can answer none of these questions. All that I feel 
is pain, which is not an impression upon the body, but upon the 
mind; and all that I perceive by this sensation is, that some 
distemper in my toe occasions this pain. But as I know not 
the natural temper and texture of my toe when it is at ease, I 
know as little what change or disorder of its parts occasions this 
uneasy sensation. In like manner, in every other sensation 
there is, without doubt, some impression made upon the organ 
of sense ; but -an impression of which we know not the nature. 
It is too subtile to be discovered by our senses, and we may 
make a thousand conjectures without coming near the truth. If 
we understood the structure of our organs of sense so minutely, 
as to discover what effects are produced upon them by external 



550 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

objects, this knowledge would contribute nothing to our percep- 
tion of the object ; for they perceive as distinctly who know 
least about the manner of perception, as the greatest adepts. It 
is necessary that the impression be made upon our organs, but 
not that it be known. Nature carries on this part of the process 
of perception, without our consciousness or concurrence. 

But we cannot be unconscious of the next step in this process, 
the sensation of the mind, which always immediately follows 
the impression made upon the body. It is essential to a sensa- 
tion to be felt, and it can be nothing more than we feel it to be. 
If we can only acquire the habit of attending to our sensations, 
we may know them perfectly. But how are the sensations of the 
mind produced by impressions upon the body I Of this we are 
absolutely ignorant, having no means of knowing how the body 
acts upon the mind, or the mind upon the body. When we con- 
sider the nature and attributes of both, they seem to be so differ- 
ent, and so unlike, that we can find no handle by w r hich the one 
may lay hold of the other. There is a deep and a dark gulf 
between them, which our understanding cannot pass: and the 
manner of their correspondence and intercourse is absolutely 
unknown. 

Experience teaches us that certain impressions upon the body 
are constantly followed by certain sensations of the mind ; and 
that, on the other hand, certain determinations of the mind are 
constantly followed by certain motions in the body : but we see 
not the chain that ties these things together. Who knows but 
their connexion may be arbitrary, and owing to the will of our 
Maker ? Perhaps the same sensations might have been connected 
with other impressions, or other bodily organs ? Perhaps we 
might have been so made, as to taste with our fingers, to smell 
with our ears, and to hear by the nose. Perhaps w r e might have 
been so made, as to have all the sensations and perceptions 
which we have, without any impression made upon our bodily 
organs at all. 

[However these things may be, if Nature had given us nothing 
more than impressions made upon the body, and sensations in our 
minds corresponding to them, we should in that case have been 
merely sentient^ but not percipient beings.] We should never 
have been able to form a conception of any external object, far 
less a belief of its existence. Our sensations have no resem- 
blance to external objects ; nor can we discover, by our reason, 
any necessary connexion between the existence of the former 
and that of the latter. 

We might perhaps, (1) have been made of such a constitution, 
as to have our present perceptions connected with other sensations. 
We might, perhaps, (2) have had the perception of external ob- 
jects, without either impressions upon the organs of sense, or 



OF SEEING. 55 1 

sensations. Or lastly, (3) The perceptions we have, might have 
been immediately connected with the impressions upon our 
organs, without any intervention of sensations. This last seems 
really to be the case in one instance, to wit, in our perception of 
the visible figure of bodies, as was observed in the fourth section 
of this chapter. 

The process of nature in perception by the senses, may there- 
fore be conceived as a kind of drama, wherein some things are 
performed behind the scenes, others are represented to the mind 
in different scenes, one succeeding another. The impression 
made by the object upon the organ, either by immediate contact, 
or by some intervening medium, as well as the impression made 
upon the nerves and brain, is performed behind the scenes, and 
the mind sees nothing of it. But every such impression, by the 
laws of the drama, is followed by a sensation, which is the first 
scene exhibited to the mind ; and this scene is quickly succeeded 
by another, which is the perception of the object. 

In this drama, nature is the actor, we are the spectators. We 
know nothing of the machinery by means of which every different 
impression upon the organ, nerves, and brain, exhibits its corre- 
sponding sensation ; or of the machinery by means of which each 
sensation exhibits its corresponding perception. We are inspired 
with the sensation, and we are inspired with the corresponding 
perception, by means unknown. And because the mind passes 
immediately from the sensation to that conception and belief of 
the object which we have in perception, in the same manner as it 
passes from signs to the things signified by them, we have there- 
fore called our sensations signs of external objects ; finding no 
word more proper to express the function which nature hath as- 
signed them in perception, and the relation which they bear to 
their corresponding objects. 

There is no necessity of a resemblance between the sign and 
the thing signified : and indeed no sensation can resemble any 
external object. But there are two things necessary to our 
knowing things by means of signs. First, That a real connexion 
between the sign and thing signified be established, either by 
the course of nature, or by the will and appointment of men. 
When they are connected by the course of nature, it is a natural 
sign ; when by human appointment, it is an artificial sign. Thus, 
smoke is a natural sign of fire ; certain features are natural signs 
of anger : but our words, whether expressed by articulate sounds 
or by writing, are artificial signs of our thoughts and purposes. 

Another requisite to our knowing things by signs is, that the 
appearance of the sign to the mind, be followed by the concep- 
tion and belief of the thing signified. Without this the sign is 
not understood or interpreted ; and therefore is no sign to us, 
however fit in its own nature for that purpose. 



552 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAF. VI. 

[Now, there are three ways in which the mind passes from the 
appearance of a natural sign to the conception and belief of the 
thing signified ; by original principles of our constitution, by 
custom, and by reasoning. 

Our original perceptions are got in the first of these ways, our 
acquired perceptions in the second, and all that reason discovers 
in the course of nature, in the third.] In the first of these ways, 
nature, by means of the sensations of touch, informs us of the 
hardness and softness of bodies ;. of their extension, figure, and 
motion ; and of that space in which they move and are placed, as 
hath been already explained in the fifth chapter of this inquiry. 
And in the second of these ways she informs us, by means of our 
eyes, of almost all the same things which originally we could 
perceive only by touch. 

In order, therefore, to understand more particularly how we 
learn to perceive so many things by the eye,, which originally 
could be perceived only by touch, it will be proper, first, To 
point out the signs by which those things are exhibited to the 
eye, and their connexion with the things signified by them ; and> 
secondly, To consider how the experience of this connexion pro- 
duces that habit by which the mind, without any reasoning or 
reflection, passes from the sign to the conception and belief of 
the thing signified. 

Of all the acquired perceptions which we have by sight, the 
most remarkable is the perception of the distance of objects from 
the eye ; we shall therefore particularly consider the signs by 
which this perception is exhibited, and only make some general 
remarks with regard to the signs which are used in other acquired 
perceptions. 

XXII. Of the signs by which we learn to perceive distance 
from the eye. — It was before observed in general, That the ori- 
ginal perceptions of sight are signs which serve to introduce 
those that are acquired : but this is not to be understood as if no 
other signs were employed for that purpose. [There are several 
motions of the eyes, which, in order to distinct vision, must be 
varied, according as the object is more or less distant; and such 
motions being by habit connected with the corresponding dis- 
tances of the object, become signs of those distances.] These 
motions were at first voluntary and unconfined ; but as the inten- 
tion of nature was, to produce perfect and distinct vision by their 
means, we soon learn by experience to regulate them according 
to that intention only, without the least reflection. 

ggg" A ship requires a different trim for every variation of the 
direction and strength of the wind : and, if we may be allowed to 
borrow that word, the eyes require a different trim for every de- 
gree of light, and for every variation of the distance of the object, 
while it is within certain limits. The eyes are trimmed for a 



OF SEEING. 



particular object, by contracting certain muscles, and relaxing 
others ; as the ship is trimmed for a particular wind, by drawing 
certain ropes, and slackening others. The sailor learns the trim 
of his ship, as we learn the trim of our eyes, by experience. A 
ship, although the noblest machine that human art can boast, is 
far inferior to the eye in this respect, that it requires art and in- 
genuity to navigate her ; and a sailor must know what ropes he 
must pull, and what he must slacken, to fit her to a particular 
wind ; but with such superior wisdom is the fabric of the eye, 
and the principles of its motion contrived, that it requires 
no art nor ingenuity to see by it. Even that part of vision 
which is got by experience, is attained by idiots. We need 
not know what muscles we are to contract, and what we 
are to relax, in order to fit the eye to a particular distance of the 
object. 

But although we are not conscious of the motions we perforin 
in order to fit the eyes to the distance of the object, we are con- 
scious of the effort employed in producing these * motions ; and 
probably have some sensation which accompanies them, to which 
we give as little attention as to other sensations. And thus, an 
effort consciously exerted, or a sensation consequent upon that 
effort, comes to be conjoined with the distance of the object 
which gave occasion to it, and by this conjunction becomes a sign 
of that distance. Some instances of this will appear in consider- 
ing the means or signs by which we learn to see the distance of 
objects from the eye. In the enumeration of these, we agree 
with Dr. Porterfield, notwithstanding that distance from the eye, 
in his opinion, is perceived originally, but, in our opinion, by 
experience only. 

In general, when a near object affects the eye in one manner, 
and the same object placed at a greater distance, affects it in a dif- 
ferent manner ; these various affections of the eye become signs 
of the corresponding distances. The means of perceiving dis- 
tance by the eye, will therefore be explained, by showing in what 
various ways objects affect the eye differently, according to their 
proximity or distance. 

1. It is well known, that to see objects distinctly at various 
distances, the form of the eye must undergo some change. And 
nature hath given us the power of adapting it to near objects, by 
the contraction of certain muscles, and to distant objects by the 
contraction of other muscles. As to the manner in which this is 
done, and the muscular parts employed, anatomists do not alto- 
gether agree. The ingenious Dr. Jurin, in his excellent essay 
on distinct and indistinct vision, seems to have given the most 
probable account of this matter ; and to him I refer the reader. 

But whatever be the manner in which this change of the form 
of the eye is effected, it is certain that young people have com- 



554 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

monly the power of adapting their eyes to all distances of the 
object, from six or seven inches to fifteen or sixteen feet ; so as 
to have perfect and distinct vision at any distance within these 
limits. From this it follows, that the effort which we consciously 
employ to adapt the eye to any particular distance of objects 
within these limits, will be connected and associated with that 
distance, and will become a sign of it. When the object is re- 
moved beyond the farthest limit of distinct vision, it will be seen 
indistinctly ; but more or less so, according as its distance is 
greater or less ; so that the degrees of indistinctness of the ob- 
ject, may become the signs of distances considerably beyond the 
farthest limit of distinct vision. 

[If we had no other mean but this, of perceiving the distance 
of visible objects, the most distant would not appear to be above 
twenty or thirty feet from the eye, and the tops of houses and 
trees would seem to touch the clouds ; for in that case the signs 
of all greater distances being the same, they have the same sig- 
nification, and give the same perception of distance.] 

But it is of more importance to observe, that because the 
nearest limit of distinct vision in the time of youth, when we 
learn to perceive distance by the eye, is about six or seven inches, 
no object seen distinctly, ever appears to be nearer than six or 
seven inches from the eye. We can, by art, make a small object 
appear distinct, when it is in reality not above half an inch from 
the eye ; either by using a single microscope, or by looking 
through a small pin-hole in a card. When by either of these 
means an object is made to appear distinct, however small its 
distance is in reality, it seems to be removed at least to the dis- 
tance of six or seven inches, that is, within the limits of distinct 
vision. 

This observation is the more important, because it affords the 
only reason we can give why an object is magnified either by a 
single microscope, or by being seen through a pin-hole ; and the 
only mean by which we can ascertain the degree in which the 
object will be magnified by either. Thus, if the object is really 
half an inch distant from the eye, and appears to be seven inches 
distant, its diameter will seem to be enlarged in the same propor- 
tion as its distance, that is, fourteen times. 

2. In order to direct both eyes to an object, the optic axes 
must have a greater or less inclination, according as the object is 
nearer or more distant. And although we are not conscious of 
this inclination, yet we are conscious of the effort employed in it. 
By this mean we perceive small distances more accurately than 
we could do by the conformation of the eye only. And there- 
fore we find, that those who have lost the sight of one eye, are 
apt, even within arm's-length, to make mistakes in the distance 
of objects, which are easily avoided by those who see with both 



OF SEEING. 555 

eyes. Such mistakes are often discovered in snuffing a candle, 
in threading a needle, or in filling a tea- cup. 

When a picture is seen with both eyes, and at no great dis- 
tance, the representation appears not so natural as when it is seen 
only with one. The intention of painting being to deceive the 
eye, and to make things appear at different distances which in 
reality are upon the same piece of canvass, this deception is not 
so easily put upon both eyes as upon one ; because we perceive 
the distance of visible objects more exactly and determinately 
with two eyes than with one. If the shading and relief be exe- 
cuted in the best manner, the picture may have almost the same 
appearance to one eye as the objects themselves would have, but 
it cannot have the same appearance to both. This is not the 
fault of the artist, but an unavoidable imperfection in the art. 
And it is owing to what we just now observed, that the percep- 
tion we have of the distance of objects by one eye is more un- 
certain, and more liable to deception, than that which we have 
by both. 

[The great impediment, and T think the only invincible impe- 
diment, to that agreeable deception of the eye which the painter 
aims at, is the perception which we have of the distance of visible 
objects from the eye, partly (1) by means of the conformation of 
the eye, but chiefly (2) by means of the inclination of the optic 
axes.] If this perception could be removed, I see no reason 
why a picture might not be made so perfect as to deceive the eye 
in reality, and to be mistaken for the original object. Therefore, 
in order to judge of the merit of a picture, we ought, as much 
as possible, to exclude these two means of perceiving the dis- 
tance of the several parts of it. 

In order to remove this perception of distance, the connois- 
seurs in painting use a method which is very proper. They look 
at the picture with one eye, through a tube which excludes the 
view of all other objects. By this method, the principal mean 
whereby we perceive the distance of the object, to wit, the incli- 
nation of the optic axes, is entirely excluded. I would humbly 
propose, as an improvement of this method of viewing pictures, 
that the aperture of the tube next to the eye should be very 
small. If it is as small as a pin-hole, so much the better, pro- 
viding there be light enough to see the picture clearly. The 
reason of this proposal is, that when we look at an object through 
a small aperture, it will be seen distinctly whether the conform- 
ation of the eye be adapted to its distance or not, and we have no 
mean left to judge of the distance, but the light and colouring, 
which are in the painter's power. If, therefore, the artist per- 
forms his part properly, the picture will by this method affect the 
eye in the same manner that the object represented would do, 
which is the perfection of this art. 



55Q OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

Although this second mean of perceiving the distance of visible 
objects be more determinate and exact than the first, yet it hath 
its limits, beyond which it can be of no use. For when the 
optic axes directed to an object are so nearly parallel, that in 
directing them to an object yet more distant, we are not con- 
scious of any new effort, nor have any different sensation, there 
our perception of distance stops ; and as all more distant objects 
affect the eye in the same manner, we perceive them to be at the 
same distance. This is the reason why the sun, moon, planets, 
and fixed stars, when seen not near the horizon, appear to be all 
at the same distance, as if they touched the concave surface of a 
great sphere. The surface of this celestial sphere is at that dis- 
tance beyond which all objects affect the eye in the same manner. 
Why this celestial vault appears more distant towards the hori- 
zon, than towards the zenith, will afterwards appear. 

3. The colours of objects, according as they are more distant, 
become more faint and languid, and are tinged more with the 
azure of the intervening atmosphere : to this we may add, that 
their minute parts become more indistinct, and their outline less 
accurately defined. It is by these means chiefly, that painters 
can represent objects at very different distances upon the same 
canvass. And the diminution of the magnitude of an object, 
would not have the effect of making it appear to be at a great 
distance, without this degradation of colour, and indistinctness 
of the outline, and of the minute parts. If a painter should 
make a human figure ten times less than other human figures 
that are in the same piece, having the colours as bright, and the 
outline and minute parts as accurately defined, it would not have 
the appearance of a man at a great distance, but of a pigmy or 
Lilliputian. 

When an object hath a known variety of colours, its distance 
is more clearly indicated by the gradual dilution of the colours 
into one another, than when it is of one uniform colour. In 
the steeple which stands before me, at a small distance the join- 
ings of the stones are clearly perceptible, the grey colour of the 
stone and the white cement are distinctly limited: when I see it 
at a greater distance, the joinings of the stones are less distinct, 
and the colours of the stone and of the cement begin to dilute 
into one another ; at a distance still greater, the joinings disap- 
pear altogether, and the variety of colour vanishes. 

In an apple-tree which stands at the distance of about twelve 
feet, covered with flowers, I can perceive the figure and the co- 
lour of the leaves and petals ; pieces of branches, some larger, 
others smaller, peeping through the intervals of the leaves, some 
of them enlightened by the sun's rays, others shaded ; and some 
openings of the sky are perceived through the whole. When I 
gradually remove from this tree, the appearance, even as to 



OF SEEING. 



557 



colour, changes every minute. First, the smaller parts, then the 
larger, are gradually confounded and mixed. The colours of 
leaves, petals, branches, and sky, are gradually diluted into each 
other, and the colour of the whole becomes more and more uni- 
form. This change of appearance, corresponding to the several 
distances, marks the distance more exactly than if the whole 
object had been of one colour. 

Dr. Smith, in his " Optics," gives us a very curious observa- 
tion made by Bishop Berkeley, in his travels through Italy and 
Sicily. He observed, that in those countries, cities and palaces 
seen at a great distance, appeared nearer to him, by several miles, 
than they really were ; and he very judiciously imputed it to this 
cause — that the purity of the Italian and Sicilian air, gave to 
very distant objects that degree of brightness and distinctness, 
which, in the grosser air of his own country, was to be seen only 
in those that are near. The purity of the Italian air hath been 
assigned as the reason why the Italian painters commonly give a 
more lively colour to the sky than the Flemish. Ought they 
not, for the same reason, to give less degradation of the colours, 
and less indistinctness of the minute parts, in the representation 
of very distant objects ? 

It is very certain, that as in air uncommonly pure, we are apt 
to think visible" objects nearer, and less than they really are ; so 
in air uncommonly foggy, we are apt to think them more distant 
and larger than the truth. Walking by the sea-side in a thick 
fog, I see an object which seems to me to be a man on horse- 
back, and at the distance of about half a mile. My companion, 
who has better eyes, or is more accustomed to see such objects in 
such circumstances, assures me, that it is a sea-gull, and not a 
man on horseback. Upon a second view, I immediately assent 
to his opinion, and now it appears to me to be a sea-gull, and at 
the distance only of seventy or eighty yards. The mistake made 
on this occasion, and the correction of it, are both so sudden, 
that we are at a loss whether to call them by the name of judg- 
ment, or by that of simple perception.* 

It is not worth while to dispute about names ; but it is evi- 
dent that my belief, both first and last, was produced rather by 
signs than by arguments : and that the mind proceeded to the 
conclusion in both cases by habit, and not by ratiocination. And 
the process of the mind seems to have been this : first, not know- 
ing, or not minding, the effect of a foggy air on the visible 
appearance of objects, the object seems to me to have that degra- 
dation of colour, and that indistinctness of the outline, which 
objects have at the distance of half a mile ; therefore, from the 
visible appearance as a sign, I immediately proceed to the belief 
that the object is half a mile distant. Then, this distance, toge- 

* They are ideas of perception, or sensation, changed by the judgment. 



OF THE HUMAN MIND. 



CHAP. VI. 



558 

ther with the visible magnitude, signify to me the real magni- 
tude, which, supposing the distance to be half a mile, must be 
equal to that of a man on horseback ; and the figure, considering 
the indistinctness of the outline, agrees with that of a man on 
horseback. Thus the deception is brought about. But when I 
am assured that it is a sea-gull, the real magnitude of a sea-gull, 
together with the visible magnitude presented to the eye, imme- 
diately suggest the distance, which in this case cannot be above 
seventy or eighty yards : the indistinctness of the figure likewise 
suggests the fogginess of the air as its cause : and now the whole 
chain of signs and things signified, seems stronger and better 
connected than it was before ; the half-mile vanishes to eighty 
yards ; the man on horseback dwindles to a sea-gull ; I get a 
new perception, and wonder how I got the former, or what is 
become of it ; for it is now so entirely gone, that I cannot 
recover it. 

It ought to be observed, that in order to produce such decep- 
tions from the clearness or fogginess of the air, it must be 
uncommonly clear, or uncommonly foggy ; for we learn from 
experience, to make allowance for that variety of constitutions 
of the air which we have been accustomed to observe, and of 
which we are aware. Bishop Berkeley therefore committed a 
mistake, when he attributed the large appearance of the horizon- 
tal moon to the faintness of her light, occasioned by its passing- 
through a larger tract of atmosphere : for we are so much accus- 
tomed to see the moon in all degrees of faintness and brightness, 
from the greatest to the least, that we learn to make allowance 
for it ; and do not imagine her magnitude increased by the faint- 
ness of her appearance. Besides, it is certain that the horizontal 
moon seen through a tube which cuts off the view of the interja- 
cent ground, and of all terrestrial objects, loses all that unusual 
appearance of magnitude. - 

4. We frequently perceive the distance of objects by means 
of intervening or contiguous objects whose distance or magnitude 
is otherwise known. When I perceive certain fields or tracts of 
ground to lie between me and an object, it is evident that these 
may become signs of its distance. And although we have no 
particular information of the dimensions of such fields or tracts, 
yet their similitude to others which we know, suggests their 
dimensions. 

We are so much accustomed to measure with our eye the 
ground which we travel, and to compare the judgments of dis- 
tances formed by sight, with our experience or information, that 
we learn by degrees, in this way, to form a more accurate judg- 
ment of the distance of terrestrial objects, than we could do by 
any of the means before mentioned. An object placed upon the 
top of a high building, appears much less than when placed upon 
the ground at the same distance. When it stands upon the 



OF SEEING. 559 

ground, the intervening tract of ground serves as a sign of its 
distance ; and the distance, together with the visible magnitude, 
serves as a sign of its real magnitude. But when the object is 
placed on high, this sign of its distance is taken away : the 
remaining signs lead us to place it at a less distance ; and this 
less distance, together with the visible magnitude, becomes a sign 
of a less real magnitude. 

The two first means we have mentioned, would never of them- 
selves make a visible object appear above a hundred and fifty or 
two hundred feet distant ; because, beyond that, there is no sen- 
sible change, either of the conformation of the eyes, or of the 
inclination of their axes : the third mean, is but a vague and 
indeterminate sign, when applied to distances above two or three 
hundred feet, unless we know the real colour and figure of the 
object : and the fifth mean, to be afterwards mentioned, can only 
be applied to objects which are familiar, or whose real magnitude 
is known. Hence it follows, that when unknown objects, upon, 
or near the surface of the earth, are perceived to be at the dis- 
tance of some miles, it is always by this fourth mean that we are 
led to that conclusion. 

Dr. Smith hath observed, very justly, that the known distance 
of the terrestrial objects which terminate our view, makes that 
part of the sky which is towards the horizon, appear more dis- 
tant than that which is towards the zenith. Hence it comes to 
pass, that the apparent figure of the sky is not that of a hemi- 
sphere, but rather a less segment of a sphere. And hence like- 
wise it comes to pass, that the diameter of the sun or moon, or 
the distance between two fixed stars, seen contiguous to a hill, or 
to any distant terrestrial object, appears much greater than when 
no such object strikes the eye at the same time. 

These observations have been sufficiently explained and con- 
firmed by Dr. Smith. I beg leave to add, that when the visible 
horizon is. terminated by very distant objects, the celestial vault 
seems to be enlarged in all its dimensions. When I view it from 
a confined street or lane, it bears some proportion to the build- 
ings that surround me : but when I view it from a large plain, 
terminated on all hands, by hills which rise one above another, 
to the distance of twenty miles from the eye, methinks I see a 
new heaven, whose magnificence declares the greatness of its 
Author, and puts every human edifice out of countenance ; for 
now the lofty spires and the gorgeous palaces shrink into nothing 
before it, and bear no more proportion to the celestial dome, than 
their makers bear to its Maker. 

5. There remains another mean by which we perceive the dis- 
tance of visible objects, and that is, the diminution of their visible 
or apparent magnitude. By experience I know what figure a 
man, or any other known object, makes to my eye, at the dis- 



I 






560 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

tance of ten feet : I perceive the gradual and proportional dimi- 
nution of this visible figure, at the distance of twenty, forty, a 
hundred feet, and at greater distances, until it vanish altogether. 
Hence a certain visible magnitude of a known object, becomes 
the sign of a certain determinate distance, and carries along with 
it the conception and belief of that distance. 

In this process of the mind, the sign is not a sensation ; it is 
an original perception. We perceive the visible figure and visible 
magnitude of the object, by the original powers of vision ; but 
the visible figure is used only as a sign of the real figure, and the 
visible magnitude is used only as a sign either of the distance, 
or of the real magnitude, of the object ; and therefore these ori- 
ginal perceptions, like other mere signs, pass through the mind 
without any attention or reflection. 

This last mean of perceiving the distance of known objects, 
serves to explain some very remarkable phenomena in optics, 
which would otherwise appear very mysterious. When we view 
objects of known dimensions through optical glasses, there is no 
other mean left of determining their distance, but this fifth. 
Hence it follows, that known objects seen through glasses, must 
seem to be brought nearer, in proportion to the magnifying power 
of the glass, or to be removed to a greater distance, in proportion 
to the diminishing power of the glass. 

If a man who had never before seen objects through a tele- 
scope, were told, that the telescope which he is about to use, 
magnifies the diameter of the object ten times ; when he looks 
through this telescope at a man six feet high, what would he 
expect to see ? Surely he would very naturally expect to see a 
giant sixty feet high. But he sees no such thing. The man 
appears no more than six feet high, and consequently no bigger 
than he really is ; but he appears ten times nearer than he is. 
The telescope indeed magnifies the image of this man upon the 
retina ten times in diameter, and must therefore magnify his 
visible figure in the same proportion ; and as we have been 
accustomed to see him of this visible magnitude when he was ten 
times nearer than he is presently, and in no other case ; this 
visible magnitude, therefore, suggests the conception and belief 
of that distance of the object with which it hath been always con- 
nected. We have been accustomed to conceive this amplifica- 
tion of the visible figure of a known object, only as the effect or 
sign of its being brought nearer : and we have annexed a certain 
determinate distance to every degree of visible magnitude of the 
object ; and therefore any particular degree of visible magnitude, 
whether seen by the naked eye or by glasses, brings along with 
it the conception and belief of the distance which corresponds to 
it. This is the reason why a telescope seems not to magnify 
known objects, but to bring them nearer to the eye. 



OF SEEING. 5gl 

When we look through a pin-hole, or a single microscope, at 
an object which is half an inch from the eye, the picture of the 
object upon the retina is not enlarged, but only rendered distinct ; 
neither is the visible figure enlarged : yet the object appears to 
the eye twelve or fourteen times more distant, and as many times 
larger in diameter, than it really is. Such a telescope as we have 
mentioned amplifies the image on the retina, and the visible 
figure of the object, ten times in diameter, and yet makes it seem 
no bigger, but only ten times nearer. These appearances had 
been long observed by the writers on optics ; they tortured their 
invention to find the causes of them from optical principles ; but 
in vain : they must be resolved into habits of perception, which 
are acquired by custom, but are apt to be mistaken for original 
perceptions. The Bishop of Cloyne first furnished the world 
with the proper key for opening up these mysterious appear- 
ances ; but he made considerable mistakes in the application of 
it. Dr. Smith, in his elaborate and judicious treatise of " Optics," 
hath applied it to the apparent distance of objects seen with glasses, 
and to the apparent figure of the heavens, with such happy suc- 
cess, that there can be no more doubt about the causes of these 
phenomena. 

XXIII. Of the signs used in these acquired perceptions, — 
The distance of objects from the eye, is the most important lesson 
in vision. Many others are easily learned in consequence of it. 
[The distance of the object, joined with its visible magnitude, is 
a sign of its real magnitude : and the distance of the several parts 
of an object, joined with its visible figure, becomes a sign of its 
real figure.] Thus, when I look at a globe which stands before 
me ; by the original powers of sight I perceive only something 
of a circular form, variously coloured. The visible figure hath 
no distance from the eye, no convexity, nor hath it three dimen- 
sions ; even its length and breadth are incapable of being mea- 
sured by inches, feet, or other linear measures. But when I 
have learned to perceive the distance of every part of this object 
from the eye, this perception gives it convexity, and a spherical 
figure ; and adds a third dimension to that which had but two 
before. The distance of the whole object makes me likewise 
perceive the real magnitude; for being accustomed to observe 
how an inch or a foot of length affects the eye at that distance, 
I plainly perceive by my eye the linear dimensions of the globe, 
and can affirm with certainty that its diameter is about one foot 
and three inches. 

It was shown in the seventh section of this chapter, that the 
visible figure of a body may, by mathematical reasoning, be 
inferred from its real figure, distance, and position, with regard 
to the eye : in like manner we may, by mathematical reasoning, 
from the visible figure, together with the distance of the several 

2 o 



562 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

parts of it from the eye, infer the real figure and position. But 
this last inference is not commonly made by mathematical reason- 
ing, nor indeed by reasoning of any kind, but by custom. 

The original appearance which the colour of an object makes 
to the eye, is a sensation for which we have no name, because it 
is used merely as a sign, and is never made an object of attention 
in common life : but this appearance, according to the different 
circumstances, signifies various things. If a piece of cloth, of 
one uniform colour, is laid so, that part of it is in the sun, and 
part in the shade ; the appearance of colour, in these different 
parts, is very different : yet we perceive the colour to be the 
same ; we interpret the variety of appearance as a sign of light 
and shade, and not as a sign of real difference in colour. But if 
the eye could be so far deceived, as not to perceive the difference 
of light in the two parts of the cloth, we should, in that case, 
interpret the variety of appearance to signify a variety of colour 
in the parts of the cloth. 

Again, if we suppose a piece of cloth placed as before, but 
having the shaded part so much brighter in the colour, that it 
gives the same appearance to the eye as the more enlightened 
part; the sameness of appearance w r ill here be interpreted to 
signify a variety of colour, because we shall make allowance for 
the effect of light and shade. 

When the real colour of an object is known, the appearance 
of it indicates, hi some circumstances, the degree of light or 
shade, in others, the colour of the circumambient bodies, whose 
rays are reflected by it ; and in other circumstances it indicates 
the distance or proximity of the object, as was observed in the 
last section ; and by means of these, many other things are sug- 
gested to the mind. Thus, an unusual appearance in the colour 
of familiar objects, may be the diagnostic of a disease in the 
spectator. The appearance of things in my room may indicate 
sunshine or cloudy weather, the earth covered with snow, or 
blackened with rain. It hath been observed, that the colour of 
the sky, in a piece of painting, may indicate the country of the 
painter, because the Italian sky is really of a different colour 
from the Flemish. 

It was already observed, that the original and acquired per- 
ceptions which we have by our senses, are the language of nature 
to man, which, in many respects, hath a great affinity to human 
languages. The instances which we have given of acquired per- 
ceptions suggest this affinity, that as in human languages ambi- 
guities are often found, so this language of nature in our acquired 
perceptions is not exempted from them. We have seen, in 
vision particularly, that the same appearance to the eye, may, in 
different circumstances, indicate different things. Therefore, 
when the circumstances are unknown upon which the interpreta- 



OF SEEING. 5gg 

tion of the signs depends, their meaning must be ambiguous ; 
and when the circumstances are mistaken, the meaning of the 
signs must also be mistaken. 

This is the case in all the phenomena which we call fallacies 
of the senses , and particularly in those which are called fallacies 
in vision. The appearance of things to the eye always corre- 
sponds to the fixed laws of nature ; therefore, if we speak pro- 
perly, there is no fallacy in the senses. Nature always speaketh 
the same language, and useth the same signs in the same circum- 
stances : but we sometimes mistake the meaning of the signs, 
either through ignorance of the laws of nature, or through igno- 
rance of the circumstances which attend the signs. 

To a man unacquainted with the principles of optics, almost 
every experiment that is made w T ith the prism, with the magic 
lantern, with the telescope, with the microscope, seems to pro- 
duce some fallacy in vision. Even the appearance of a common 
mirror, to one altogether unacquainted with the effects of it, 
would seem most remarkably fallacious. For how can a man be 
more imposed upon, than in seeing that before him which is 
really behind him ? How can he be more imposed upon, than 
in being made to see himself several yards removed from himself ? 
Yet children, even before they can speak their mother- tongue, 
learn not to be deceived by these appearances. These, as well 
as all the other surprising appearances produced by optical glasses, 
are a part of the visual language ; and, to those* who understand 
the laws of nature concerning light and colours, are no wise falla- 
cious, but have a distinct and true meaning. 

XXIV. Of the analogy between perception and the credit we 
give to human testimony. — The objects of human knowledge are 
innumerable, but the channels by which it is conveyed to the 
mind are few. Among these, the perception of external things 
by our senses, and the informations which we receive upon human 
testimony, are not the least considerable : and so remarkable is 
the analogy between these two, and the analogy between the 
principles of the mind which are subservient to the one and those 
which are subservient to the other, that, without further apology, 
we shall consider them together. 

In the testimony of nature given by the senses, as well as in 
human testimony given by language, things are signified to us 
by signs : and in one as well as the other, the mind, either by 
original principles, or by custom, passes from the sign to the 
conception and belief of the thing signified. 

[We have distinguished our perceptions into original and 
acquired; and language, into natural and artificial. Between 
acquired perception and artificial language, there is a great 
analogy ; but still a greater between original perception and 
natural language.] 

2o2 






564 * 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

The signs in Original perception are sensations, of which nature 
hath given us a great variety, suited to the variety of the things 
signified hy them. Nature hath established a real connexion 
between these signs and the things signified, and nature hath 
also taught us the interpretation of the signs ; so that, previous 
to experience, the sign suggests the thing signified, and creates 
the belief of it. 

The signs in natural language are features of the face, gestures 
of the body, and modulations of the voice ; the variety of which is 
suited to the variety of the things signified by them. Nature hath 
established a real connexion between these signs, and the thoughts 
and dispositions of the mind which are signified by them ; and 
nature hath taught us the interpretation of these signs ; so that, 
previous to experience, the sign suggests the thing signified, and 
creates the belief of it. 

fi^ 3 A man in company, without doing good or evil, without 
uttering an articulate sound, may behave himself gracefully, 
civilly, politely ; or, on the contrary, meanly, rudely, and imper- 
tinently. We see the dispositions of his mind, by their natural 
signs in his countenance and behaviour, in the same manner as 
we perceive the figure and other qualities of bodies by the sen- 
sations which nature hath connected with them. 

The signs in the natural language of the human countenance 
and behaviour, as well as the signs in our original perceptions, 
have the same signification in all climates and in all nations ; and 
the skill of interpreting them is not acquired, but innate. 

In acquired perception, the signs are either sensations, or 
things which we perceive by means of sensations. The con- 
nexion between the sign and the thing signified is established by 
nature : and we discover this connexion by experience ; but not 
without the aid of our original perceptions, or of those which we 
have already acquired. After this connexion is discovered, the 
sign, in like manner as in original perception, always suggests 
the thing signified, and creates the belief of it. 

In artificial language, the signs are articulate sounds, whose 
connexion with the things signified by them is established by 
the will of men : and in learning our mother-tongue we discover 
this connexion by experience ; but not without the aid of natural 
language, or of what we had before attained of artificial lan- 
guage. And after this connexion is discovered, the sign, as in 
natural language, always suggests the thing signified, and creates 
the belief of it. 

Our original perceptions are few, compared with the ac- 
quired ; but without the former we could not possibly attain the 
latter. In like manner, natural language is scanty, compared 
with artificial ; but without the former, we could not possibly 
attain the latter. 



OF SEEING. 5Q5 

Our original perceptions, as well as the natural language of 
human features and gestures, must be resolved into particular 
principles of the human constitution. Thus, it is by one par- 
ticular principle of our constitution, that certain features express 
anger ; and by another particular principle that certain features 
express benevolence. It is in like manner, by one particular 
principle of our constitution, that a certain sensation signifies 
hardness in the body which I handle ; and it is by another par- 
ticular principle that a certain sensation signifies motion in that 
body. 

But our acquired perceptions, and the information we receive 
by means of artificial language, must be resolved into general 
principles of the human constitution. When a painter per- 
ceives that this picture is the work of Raphael, that the work of 
Titian ; a jeweller, that this is a true diamond, that a counter- 
feit ; a sailor that this is a ship of five hundred ton, that, of four 
hundred : these different acquired perceptions are produced by 
the same general principles of the human mind, which have a 
different operation in the same person, according as they are va- 
riously applied, and in different persons according to the diver- 
sity of their education and manner of life. In like manner, 
when certain articulate sounds convey to my mind the knowledge 
of the battle of Pharsalia, and others, the knowledge of the 
battle of Pultowa ; when a Frenchman and an Englishman receive 
the same information by different articulate sounds ; the signs 
used in these different cases produce the knowledge and belief of 
the things signified, by means of the same general principles of 
the human constitution. 

Now, if we compare the general principles of our constitution, 
which fit us for receiving information from our fellow-creatures 
by language, with the general principles which fit us for acquir- 
ing the perception of tilings by our senses, we shall find them to 
be very similar in their nature and manner of operation. 

When we begin to learn our mother-tongue, we perceive, by 
the help of natural language, that they who speak to us use cer- 
tain sounds to express certain things : we imitate the same sounds 
when we would express the same things, and find that we are 
understood. 

But here a difficulty occurs which merits our attention, be- 
cause the solution of it leads to some original principles of the 
human mind, which are of great importance, and of very exten- 
sive influence. We know by experience that men have used 
such words to express such things. But all experience is of the 
past, and can of itself give no notion or belief of what is future. 
How come we then to believe, and to rely upon it with assur- 
ance, that men who have it in their power to do otherwise will 
continue to use the same words when they think the same things ? 



56f) OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

Whence comes this knowledge and belief, this foresight, we 
ought rather to call it, of the future and voluntary actions of our 
fellow-creatures ? Have they promised that they will never im- 
pose upon us by equivocation or falsehood ? No, they have not. 
And if they had, this would not solve the difficulty : for such 
promise must be expressed by words, or by other signs ; and 
before we can rely upon it, we must be assured that they put the 
same meaning upon those signs as they have used to do. No 
man of common sense ever thought of taking a man's own word 
for his honesty ; and it is evident that we take his veracity for 
granted when we lay any stress upon his word or promise. I 
might add, that this reliance upon the declarations and testimony 
of men is found in children long before they know what a pro- 
mise is. 

There is therefore in the human mind an early anticipation, 
neither derived from experience, nor from reason, nor from any 
compact or promise, that our fellow-creatures will use the same 
signs in language, when they have the same sentiments. 

This is, in reality, a kind of prescience of human actions ; and 
it seems to me to be an original principle of the human constitu- 
tion, without which we should be incapable of language, and 
consequently incapable of instruction. 

-The wise and beneficent Author of nature, who intended that 
we should be social creatures, and that we should receive the 
greatest and most important part of our knowledge by the infor- 
mation of others, hath, for these purposes, implanted in our 
natures two principles that tally with each other. 

[The first of these principles is, a propensity to speak truth, 
and to use the signs of language, so as to convey our real senti- 
ments.] This principle has a powerful operation, even in the 
greatest liars ; for where they lie once, they speak truth a 
hundred times. Truth is always uppermost, and is the natural 
issue of the mind. It requires no art or training, no inducement 
or temptation, but only that we yield to a natural impulse. Ly- 
ing, on the contrary, is doing violence to our nature ; and is 
never practised, even by the worst men, without some temptation. 
Speaking truth is like using our natural food, which we would 
do from appetite, although it answered no end ; but lying is like 
taking physic, which is nauseous to the taste, and which no man 
takes but for some end which he cannot otherwise attain. 

If it should be objected, That men may be influenced by moral 
or political considerations to speak truth, and therefore that 
their doing so is no proof of such an original principle as we 
have mentioned ; I answer, first, That moral or political conside- 
rations can have no influence, until we arrive at years of under- 
standing and reflection ; and it is certain from experience, that 
children keep to truth invariably, before they are capable of being 



OF SEEING. 507 

influenced by such considerations. Secondly, When we are in- 
fluenced by moral or political considerations, we must be con- 
scious of that influence, and capable of perceiving it upon 
reflection. Now, when I reflect upon my actions most attentively, 
I am not conscious that in speaking truth, I am influenced on 
ordinary occasions by any motive moral or political. I find, that 
truth is always at the door of my lips, and goes forth spontaneously, 
if not held back. It requires neither good nor bad intention to 
bring it forth, but only that I be artless and undesigning. There 
may indeed be temptations to falsehood, which would be too 
strong for the natural principle of veracity, unaided by principles 
of honour or virtue ; but where there is no such temptation, we 
speak truth by instinct : and this instinct is the principle I have 
been explaining. 

By this instinct, a real connexion is formed between our words 
and our thoughts, and thereby the former become fit to be signs 
of the latter, which they could not otherwise be. And although 
this connexion is broken in every instance of lying and equivoca- 
tion, yet these instances being comparatively few, the authority 
of human testimony is only weakened by them, but not des- 
troyed. 

[Another original principle implanted in us by the Supreme 
Being, is a disposition to confide in the veracity of others, and to 
believe what they tell us.] This is the counter-part to the for- 
mer ; and as that may be called the principle of veracity, we 
shall, for want of a more proper name, call this the principle of 
credulity. It is unlimited in children, until they meet with in- 
stances of deceit and falsehood : and it retains a very considerable 
degree of strength through life. 

If nature had left the mind of the speaker in equilibrio, 
without any inclination to the side of truth more than to that of 
falsehood, children would lie as often as they speak truth, until 
reason was so far ripened, as to suggest the imprudence of lying, 
or conscience, as to suggest its immorality. And if nature had 
left the mind of the hearer in equilibrio, without any inclination 
to the side of belief more than to that of disbelief, we should take 
no man's word until we had positive evidence that he spoke 
truth. His testimony would, in this case, have no more autho- 
rity than his dreams ; which may be true or false, but no man 
is disposed to believe them, on this account, that they were 
dreamed. It is evident, that in the matter of testimony, the 
balance of human judgment is by nature inclined to the side of 
belief ; and turns to that side of itself, when there is nothing put 
into the opposite scale. If it was not so, no proposition that is 
uttered in discourse would be believed, until it was examined 
and tried by reason ; and most men would be unable to find 
reasons for believing the thousandth part of what is told them. 



568 . 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI, 

Such distrust and incredulity would deprive us of the greatest 
benefits of society, and place us in a worse condition than that of 
savages. 

Children, on this supposition, would be absolutely incredulous ; 
and therefore absolutely incapable of instruction : those who had 
little knowledge of human life, and of the manners and characters 
of men, would be in the next degree incredulous : and the most 
credulous men would be those of greatest experience, and of the 
deepest penetration ; because, in many cases, they would be able 
to find good reasons for believing testimony, which the weak and 
the ignorant could not discover. 

In a word, if credulity were the effect of reasoning and expe- 
rience, it must grow up and gather strength, in the same propor- 
tion as reason and experience do. But if it is the gift of nature, 
it will be strongest in childhood, and limited and restrained by 
experience ; and the most superficial view of human life shows, 
that the last is really the case, and not the first. 

It is the intention of nature, that we should be carried in arms' 
before we are able to walk upon our legs ; and it is likewise the 
intention of nature, that our belief should be guided by the autho- 
rity and reason of others, before it can be guided by our own 
reason. The weakness of the infant, and the natural affection 
of the mother, plainly indicate the former ; and the natural cre- 
dulity of youth, and authority of age, as plainly indicate the 
latter. The infant, by proper nursing and care, acquires strength 
to walk without support. Reason hath likewise her infancy, 
when she must be carried in arms : then she leans entirely upon 
authority, by natural instinct, as if she was conscious of her 
own weakness ; and without this support, she becomes vertigi- 
nous. When brought to maturity by proper culture, she begins 
to feel her own strength, and leans less upon the reason of others ; 
she learns to suspect testimony in some cases, and to disbelieve 
it in others ; and sets bounds to that authority to which she was 
at first entirely subject. But still, to the end of life she finds a 
necessity of borrowing light from testimony where she has none 
within herself, and of leaning in some degree upon the reason 
of others, where she is conscious of her own imbecility. 

And as in many instances reason, even in her maturity, bor- 
rows aid from testimony ; so in others she mutually gives aid 
to it, and strengthens its authority. For as we find good reason 
to reject testimony in some cases, so in others we find good reason 
to rely upon it with perfect security, in our most important con- 
cerns. The character, the number, and the disinterestedness of 
witnesses, the impossibility of collusion, and the incredibility of 
their concurring in their testimony, without collusion, may give 
an irresistible strength to testimony, compared to which its native 
and intrinsic authority is very inconsiderable. 



OF SEEING. 569 

Having now considered the general principles of the human 
mind which fit us for receiving information from our fellow- 
creatures, by the means of language ; let us next consider the 
general principles which fit us for receiving the information of 
nature by our acquired perceptions. 

It is undeniable, and indeed is acknowledged by all, that when 
we have found two things to have been constantly conjoined in 
the course of nature, the appearance of one of them is immediately 
followed by the conception and belief of the other. The former 
becomes a natural sign of the latter ; and the knowledge of their 
constant conjunction in time past, whether got by experience 
or otherwise, is sufficient to make us rely with assurance upon 
the continuance of that conjunction. 

This process of the human mind is so familiar, that we never 
think of inquiring into the principles upon which it is founded. 
We are apt to conceive it as a self-evident truth, that what is 
to come must be similar to what is past. Thus, if a certain de- 
gree of cold freezes water to-day, and has been known to do so 
in all time past, we have no doubt but the same degree of cold 
will freeze water to-morrow, or a year hence. That this a truth, 
which all men believe as soon as they understand it, I readily ad- 
mit ; but the question is, Whence does its evidence arise ? Not 
from comparing the ideas, surely. For when I compare the idea 
of cold with that of water hardened into a transparent solid 
body, I can perceive no connexion between them : no man can 
show the one to be the necessary effect of the other : no man can 
give a shadow of reason why nature hath conjoined them. But 
do we not learn their conjunction from experience ? True ; expe- 
rience informs us that they have been conjoined in time past ; 
but no man ever had any experience of what is future ; and this 
is the very question to be resolved, How we come to believe that 
the future will be like the past ? Hath the Author of nature 
promised this ? Or were we admitted to his council, when he 
established the present laws of nature, and determined the time 
of their continuance ? No surely. Indeed if we believe that 
there is a wise and good Author of nature, we may see a good 
reason why he should continue the same laws of nature, and the 
same connexions of things, for a long time ; because, if he did 
otherwise, we could learn nothing from what is past, and all our 
experience would be of no use to us. But though this conside- 
ration, when we come to the use of reason, may confirm our 
belief of the continuance of the present course of nature, it is 
certain that it did not give rise to this belief ; for children and 
idiots have this belief as soon as they know that fire will burn 
them. It must therefore be the effect of instinct, not of reason. 

The wise Author of our nature intended that a great and 
necessary part of our knowledge should be derived from experi- 



570 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

ence, before we are capable of reasoning, and he hath provided 
means perfectly adequate to this intention. For; first, He governs 
nature by fixed laws, so that we find innumerable connexions of 
things which continue from age to age. Without this stability 
of the course of nature, there could be no experience : or it would 
be a false guide, and lead us into error and mischief. If there 
were not a principle of veracity in the human kind, men's words 
would not be signs of their thoughts : and if there were no regu- 
larity in the course of nature, no one thing could be a natural 
sign of another. Secondly, He hath implanted in human minds 
an original principle by which we believe and expect the con- 
tinuance of the course of nature, and the continuance of those 
connexions which we have observed in time past. It is by this 
general principle of our nature, that when two things have been 
found connected in time past, the appearance of the one produces 
the belief of the other. 

I think the ingenious author of the " Treatise of Human Na- 
ture" first observed, that our belief of the continuance of the 
laws of nature cannot be founded either upon knowledge or pro- 
bability : but, far from conceiving it to be an original principle 
of the mind, he endeavours to account for it from his favourite 
hypothesis, that belief is nothing but a certain degree of vivacity 
in the idea of the thing believed. I made a remark upon this 
curious hypothesis in the second chapter, and shall now make 
another. 

[The belief which we have in perception, is a belief of the pre- 
sent existence of the object ; that which we have in memory, is 
a belief of its past existence ; the belief of which we are now 
speaking, is a belief of its future existence, and in imagination 
there is no belief at all.] Now I would gladly know of this au- 
thor, how one degree of vivacity fixes the existence of the object 
to the present moment ; another carries it back to time past ; a 
third, taking a contrary direction, carries into futurity; and a 
fourth, carries it out of existence altogether. Suppose, for in- 
stance, that I see the sun rising out of the sea ; I remember to 
have seen him rise yesterday ; I believe he will rise to-morrow 
near the same place ; I can likewise imagine him rising in that 
place, without any belief at all. Now, according to this sceptical 
hypothesis, this perception, this memory, this foreknowledge, 
and this imagination, are all the same idea, diversified only by 
different degrees of vivacity. The perception of the sun rising 
is the most lively idea ; the memory of his rising yesterday, is the 
same idea a little more faint ; the belief of his rising to-morrow 
is the same idea yet fainter ; and the imagination of his rising, is 
still the same idea, but faintest of all. One is apt to think that 
this idea might gradually pass through all possible degrees of viva- 
city without stirring out of its place. But if we think so, we de- 



OF SEEING. 571 

ceive ourselves ; for no sooner does it begin to grow languid, than 
it moves backward into time past. Supposing this to be granted, 
we expect at least that as it moves backward by the decay of its 
vivacity, the more that vivacity decays, it will go back the farther, 
until it remove quite out of sight. But here we are deceived 
again ; for there is a certain period of this declining vivacity, 
when, as if it had met an elastic obstacle in its motion backward, 
it suddenly rebounds from the past to the future, without taking 
the present in its way. And now having got into the regions of 
futurity, we are apt to think that it has room enough to spend all 
its remaining vigour : but still we are deceived ; for, by another 
sprightly bound, it mounts up into the airy region of imagination. 
So that ideas, in the gradual declension of their vivacity, seem 
to imitate the inflection of verbs in grammar. They begin with 
the present, and proceed in order to the preterite, the future, 
and the indefinite. This article of the sceptical creed is indeed 
so full of mystery, on whatever side we view it, that they who 
hold that creed are very injuriously charged with incredulity : 
for to me it appears to require as much faith as that of Saint 
Athanasius. 

However, we agree with the author of the " Treatise of Hu- 
man Nature" in this, [that our belief of the continuance of na- 
ture's laws is not derived from reason. It is an instinctive pre- 
science of the operations of nature, very like to that prescience 
of human actions which makes us rely upon the testimony of our 
fellow-creatures : and as, without the latter we should be inca- 
pable of receiving information from men by language ; so with- 
out the former we should be incapable of receiving the informa- 
tion of nature by means of experience.] 

All our knowledge of nature, beyond our original perceptions, 
is got by experience, and consists in the interpretation of natural 
signs. The constancy of nature's laws connects the sign with 
the thing signified, and by the natural principle just now ex- 
plained, we rely upon the continuance of the connexions which 
experience hath discovered ; and thus the appearance of the sign 
is followed by the belief of the thing signified. 

Upon this principle of our constitution, not only acquired 
perception, but all inductive reasoning, and all our reasoning 
from analogy, is grounded : and therefore, for want of another 
name, we shall beg leave to call it the inductive principle. It is 
from the force of this principle that we immediately assent to that 
axiom upon which all our knowledge of nature is built, that 
effects of the same kind must have the same cause. For effects 
and causes, in the operations of nature, mean nothing but signs, 
and the things signified by them. We perceive no proper caus- 
ality or efficiency in any natural cause, but only a connexion esta- 
blished by the course of nature between it and what is called its 



572 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

effect. Antecedently to all reasoning, we have, by our con- 
stitution, an anticipation that there is a fixed and steady course 
of nature ; and we have an eager desire to discover this course of 
nature. We attend to every conjunction of things which presents 
itself, and expect the continuance of that conjunction. And 
when such a conjunction has been often observed, we conceive 
the things to be naturally connected, and the appearance of one, 
without any reasoning or reflection, carries along with it the 
belief of the other. 

If any reader should imagine that the inductive principle may 
be resolved into what philosophers usually call the association of 
ideas, let him observe, that by this principle, natural signs are 
not associated with the idea only, but with the belief of the things 
signified. Now, this can with no propriety be called an associ- 
ation of ideas, unless ideas and belief be one and the same thing. 
A child has found the prick of a pin conjoined with pain, hence 
he believes, and knows, that these things are naturally con- 
nected ; he knows that the one will always follow the other. 
If any man will call this only an association of ideas, I dispute not 
about words, but I think he speaks very improperly. For if we 
express it in plain English, it is a prescience that things which 
he hath found conjoined in time past, will be conjoined in time 
to come. And this prescience is not the effect of reasoning, but 
of an original principle of human nature, which I have called 
the inductive principle. 

This principle, like that of credulity, is unlimited in infancy, 
and gradually restrained and regulated, as we grow up. It leads 
us often into mistakes, but is of infinite advantage upon the 
whole. By it the child once burnt shuns the fire ; by it, he like- 
wise runs away from the surgeon, by whom he was inoculated. 
It is better that he should do the last than that he should not do 
the first. 

But the mistakes we are led into by these two natural prin- 
ciples are of a different kind. Men sometimes lead us into mis- 
takes, when we perfectly understand their language, by speaking 
lies. But nature never misleads us in this way : her language 
is always true ; and it is only by misinterpreting it that we 
fall into error. There must be many accidental conjunctions 
of things, as well as natural connexions ; and the former are 
apt to be mistaken for the latter. Thus, in the instance above 
mentioned, the child connected the pain of inoculation with 
the surgeon ; whereas it was really connected with the incision 
only. Philosophers, and men of science, are not exempted 
from such mistakes ; indeed all false reasoning in philosophy is 
owing to them : it is drawn from experience and analogy, as well 
as just reasoning, otherwise it could have no verisimilitude : but 
the one is an unskilful and rash, the other, a just and legitimate 



OF SEEING. 573 

interpretation of natural signs. If a child, or a man of common 
understanding, were put to interpret a book of science, wrote in 
his mother- tongue, how many blunders and mistakes would he 
be apt to fall into ? Yet he knows as much of this language as 
is necessary for his manner of life. 

The language of nature is the universal study ; and the stu- 
dents are of different classes. Brutes, idiots, and children, em- 
ploy themselves in this study, and owe to it all their acquired 
perceptions. Men of common understanding make a greater 
progress, and learn, by a small degree of reflection, many things 
of which children are ignorant. 

Philosophers fill up the highest form in this school, and are 
critics in the language of nature. All these different classes have 
one teacher, experience enlightened by the inductive principle. 
Take away the light of this inductive principle, and experience 
is as blind as a mole : she may indeed feel what is present, and 
w T hat immediately touches her ; but she sees nothing that is either 
before or behind, upon the right hand or upon the left, future 
or past. 

The rules of inductive reasoning, or of a just interpretation of 
nature, as well as the fallacies by which we are apt to misinter- 
pret her language, have been, with wonderful sagacity, delineated 
by the great genius of Lord Ba,con : so that his " Novum Orga- 
num" may justly be called a grammar of the language of nature. 
It adds greatly to the merit of this work, and atones for its 
defects, that at the time it was written, the world had not seen 
any tolerable model of inductive reasoning from which the rules 
of it might be copied. The arts of poetry and eloquence were 
grown up to perfection when Aristotle described them : but the 
art of interpreting nature was yet in embryo when Bacon deli- 
neated its manly features and proportions. Aristotle drew his 
rules from the best models of those arts that have yet appeared ; 
but the best models of inductive reasoning that have yet appeared, 
which I take to be the third book of the " Principia" and the 
" Optics" of Newton, were drawn from Bacon's rules. The pur- 
pose of all those rules is, to teach us to distinguish seeming or 
apparent connexions of things in the course of nature, from such 
as are real. 

They that are unskilful in inductive reasoning, are more apt 
to fall into error in their reasonings from the phenomena of 
nature, than in their acquired perceptions ; because we often 
reason from a few instances, and thereby are apt to mistake 
accidental conjunctions of things for natural connexions : but 
that habit of passing, without reasoning, from the sign to the 
thing signified, which constitutes acquired perception, must be 
learned by many instances or experiments ; and the number 
of experiments serves to disjoin those things which have been 



574 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VI. 

accidentally conjoined, as well as to confirm our belief of natural 
connexions. 

From the time that children begin to use their hands, nature 
directs them to handle every thing over and over, to look at it 
while they handle it, and to put it in various positions, and at 
various distances from the eye. We are apt to excuse this as a 
childish diversion, because they must be doing something, and 
have not reason to entertain themselves in a more manly way. 
But if we think more justly, we shall find, that they are engaged 
in the most serious and important study ; and if they had all the 
reason of philosophers, they could not be more properly em- 
ployed. For it is this childish employment that enables them to 
make the proper use of their eyes. They are thereby every day 
acquiring habits of perception which are of greater importance 
than any thing we can teach them. The original perceptions 
which nature gave them are few, and insufficient for the purposes 
of life ; and therefore she made them capable of acquiring many 
more perceptions by habit. And to complete her work, she hath 
given them an unwearied assiduity in applying to the exercises 
by which those perceptions are acquired. 

This is the education which nature gives to her children. And 
since we have fallen upon this subject, we may add, that another 
part of nature's education is, that, by the course of things, chil- 
dren must often exert all their muscular force, and employ all 
their ingenuity, in order to gratify their curiosity, and satisfy 
their little appetites. What they desire is only to be obtained 
at the expense of labour and patience, and many disappoint- 
ments. By the exercise of body and mind necessary for satisfy- 
ing their desires, they acquire agility, strength, and dexterity in 
their motions, as well as health and vigour to their constitutions ; 
they learn patience and perseverance ; they learn to bear pain 
without dejection, and disappointment without despondence. 
The education of nature is most perfect in savages, who have no 
other tutor : and we see, that in the quickness of all their senses, 
in the agility of their motions, in the hardiness of their constitu- 
tions, and in the strength of their minds to bear hunger, thirst, 
pain, and disappointment, they commonly far exceed the civil- 
ized. A most ingenious writer, on this account, seems to prefer 
the savage life to that of society. But the education of nature 
could never of itself produce a Rousseau. It is the intention 
of nature, that human education should be joined to her insti- 
tution, in order to form the man. And she hath fitted us for 
human education, by the natural principles of imitation and cre- 
dulity, which discover themselves almost in infancy, as well as 
by others which are of later growth. 

When the education which we receive from men does not give 
scope to the education of nature, it is wrong directed ; it tends 



conclusion. 575 

to hurt our faculties of perception, and to enervate both the body 
and mind. Nature hath her way of rearing men, as she hath of 
curing their diseases. The art of medicine is to follow nature, 
to imitate and to assist her in the cure of diseases ; and the art 
of education is to follow nature, to assist and to imitate her in her 
way of rearing men. g§p° The ancient Balearides followed nature 
in the manner of teaching their children to be good archers, when 
they hung their dinner aloft by a thread, and left the younkers 
to bring it down by their skill in arching. 

The education of nature, without any more human care than 
is necessary to preserve life, makes a perfect savage. Human 
education, joined to that of nature, may make a good citizen a 
skilful artizan, or a well-bred man. But reason and reflection 
must superadd their tutory, in order to produce a Rousseau, a 
Bacon, or a Newton. 

Notwithstanding the innumerable errors committed in human 
education, there is hardly any education so bad, as to be worse 
than none. And I apprehend, that if even Rousseau were to 
choose whether to educate a son among the French, the Italians, 
the Chinese > or among the Esquimaux, he would not give the 
preference to the last. 

When reason is properly employed, she will confirm the docu- 
ments of nature, which are always true and wholesome ; she will 
distinguish, in the documents of human education, the good from 
the bad, rejecting the last with modesty, and adhering to the first 
with reverence. 

Most men continue all their days to be just what nature and 
human education made them. Their manners, their opinions, 
their virtues, and their vices, are all got by habit, imitation, and 
instruction ; and reason has little or no share in forming them. 



CHAPTER VII. 



CONCLUSION. 



Containing, reflections upon the opinions of philosophers on 
this subject. — There are two ways in which men may form their 
notions and opinions concerning the mind, and concerning its 
powers and operations. The first is the only way that leads to 
truth ; but it is narrow and rugged, and few have entered upon 
it. The second is broad and smooth, and hath been much beaten, 
not only by the vulgar, but even by philosophers : it is sufficient 
for common life, and is well adapted to the purposes of the poet 
and orator ; but, in philosophical disquisitions concerning the 
mind, it leads to error and delusion. 

We may call the first of these ways, the way of reflection. 






576 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 

When the operations of the mind are exerted, we are conscious 
of them ; and it is in our power to attend to them, and to reflect 
upon them, until they become familiar objects of thought. This 
is the only way in which we can form just and accurate notions 
of those operations. But this attention and reflection is so diffi- 
cult to man, surrounded on all hands by external objects which 
constantly solicit his attention, that it has been very little prac- 
tised, even by philosophers. In the course of this inquiry, we 
have had many occasions to show how little attention hath been 
given to the most familiar operations of the senses. 

The second, and the most common way, in which men form 
their opinions concerning the mind and its operations, we may 
call the way of analogy. There is nothing in the course of nature 
so singular, but we can find some resemblance, or at least some 
analogy, between it and other things with which we are ac- 
quainted. The mind naturally delights in hunting after such 
analogies, and attends to them with pleasure. From them, poetry 
and wit derive a great part of their charms ; and eloquence not a 
little of its persuasive force. 

[Besides (1) the pleasure we receive from analogies, (2) they are 
of very considerable use both to facilitate the conception of 
things, when they are not easily apprehended without such a 
handle, and to lead us to probable conjectures about their nature 
and qualities, when we want the means of more direct and imme- 
diate knowledge.] gg^° When I consider that the planet Jupiter, 
in like manner as the earth, rolls round his own axis, and revolves 
round the sun, and that he is enlightened by several secondary 
planets, as the earth is enlightened by the moon ; I am apt to 
conjecture from analogy, that as the earth by these means is 
fitted to be the habitation of various orders of animals, so the 
planet Jupiter is, by the like means, fitted for the same purpose : 
and having no argument more direct and conclusive to determine 
me in this point, I yield to this analogical reasoning a degree of 
assent proportioned to its strength. When I observe, that the 
potato-plant very much resembles the solanum in its flower and 
fructification, and am informed that the last is poisonous, I am 
apt from analogy to have some suspicion of the former : but in 
this case, I have access to more direct and certain evidence ; and 
therefore ought not to trust to analogy, which would lead me 
into an error. 

[Arguments from analogy are always at hand, and grow up 
spontaneously in a fruitful imagination, while arguments that are 
more direct, and more conclusive, often require painful attention 
and application : and therefore mankind in general have been 
very much disposed to trust to the former.] If one attentively 
examines the systems of the ancient philosophers, either concern- 
ing the material world, or concerning the mind, he will find them 



conclusion. 577 

to be built solely upon the foundation of analogy. Lord Bacon 
first delineated the strict and severe method of induction ; since 
his time it has been applied with very happy success in some 
parts of natural philosophy ; and hardly in any thing else. But 
there is no subject in which mankind are so much disposed to 
trust to the analogical way of thinking and reasoning, as in what 
concerns the mind and its operations ; because, to form clear and 
distinct notions of those operations in the direct and proper way, 
and to reason about them, requires a habit of attentive reflection, 
of which few are capable, and which, even by those few, cannot 
be attained without much pains and labour. 

Every man is apt to form his notions of things difficult to be 
apprehended, or less familiar, from their analogy to things which 
are more familiar. Thus, if a man bred to the seafaring life, and 
accustomed to think and talk only of matters relating to naviga- 
tion, enters into discourse upon any other subject ; it is well 
known, that the language and the notions proper to his own pro- 
fession are infused into every subject, and all things are measured 
by the rules of navigation : and if he should take it into his head 
to philosophize concerning the faculties of the mind, it cannot 
be doubted, but he would draw his notions from the fabric of 
his ship, and would find in the mind, sails, masts, rudder, and 
compass. 

Sensible objects of one kind or other, do no less occupy and 
engross the rest of mankind, than things relating to navigation, 
the seafaring man. For a considerable part of life, we can think 
of nothing but the objects of sense ; and to attend to objects of 
another nature, so as to form clear and distinct notions of them, 
is no easy matter, even after we come to years of reflection. The 
condition of mankind, therefore, affords good reason to appre- 
hend, that their language, and their common notions, concerning 
the mind and its operations, will be analogical, and derived from 
the objects of sense ; and that these analogies will be apt to 
impose upon philosophers, as well as upon the vulgar, and to 
lead them to materialize the mind and its faculties : and expe- 
rience abundantly confirms the truth of this. 

How generally men of all nations, and in all ages of the world, 
have conceived the soul, or thinking principle in man, to be some 
subtile matter, like breath or wind, the names given to it almost 
in all languages sufficiently testify. We have words which are 
proper, and not analogical, to express the various ways in which 
we perceive external objects by the senses ; such as feeling, sight, 
taste : but we are often obliged to use these words analogically, 
to express other powers of the mind which are of a very different 
nature. And the powers which imply some degree of reflection, 
have generally no names but such as are analogical. The objects 

2 p 









578 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 

of thought are said to be in the mind, to be apprehended; compre- 
hended, conceived, imagined, retained, weighed, ruminated. 

It does not appear that the notions of the ancient philoso- 
phers, with regard to the nature of the soul, were much more 
refined than those of the vulgar, or that they were formed in any 
other way. We shall distinguish the philosophy that regards 
our subject into the old and the new. [The old reached down 
to Des Cartes, who gave it a fatal blow, of which it has been 
gradually expiring ever since, and is now almost extinct. Des 
Cartes is the father of the new philosophy that relates to this 
subject ; but it hath been gradually improving since his time, 
upon the principles laid down by him.] The old philosophy 
seems to have been purely analogical : the new is more derived 
from reflection, but still with a very considerable mixture of the 
old analogical notions. 

Because the objects of sense consist of matter and form, the 
ancient philosophers conceived every thing to belong to one of 
these, or to be made up of both. Some, therefore, thought that 
the soul is a particular kind of subtile matter, separable from 
our gross bodies ; others thought that it is only a particular 
form of the body, and inseparable from it. For there seem to 
have been some among the ancients, as well as among the mo- 
derns, who conceived that a certain structure or organization of 
the body is all that is necessary to render it sensible and intelli- 
gent. The different powers of the mind were accordingly, by 
the last sect of philosophers, conceived to belong to different 
parts of the body, as the heart, the brain, the liver, the stomach, 
the blood. 

They who thought that the soul is a subtile matter, separable 
from the body, disputed to which of the four elements it belongs, 
whether to earth, water, air, or fire. Of the three last, each had 
its particular advocates. But some were of opinion that it par- 
takes of all the elements ; that it must have something in its 
composition similar to every thing we perceive ; and that we 
perceive earth by the earthy part ; water, by the watery part ; 
and fire, by the fiery part of the soul. Some philosophers, not 
satisfied with determining of what kind of matter the soul is 
made, inquired likewise into its figure, which they determined 
to be spherical, that it might be the more fit for motion. The 
most spiritual and sublime notion concerning the nature of the 
soul, to be met with among the ancient philosophers, I conceive 
to be that of the Platonists, who held that it is made of that 
celestial and incorruptible matter of which the fixed stars were 
made, and therefore has a natural tendency to rejoin its proper 
element. I am at a loss to say in which of these classes of phi- 
losophers Aristotle ought to be placed. He defines the soul to 



conclusion. 579 

be, The first evTekex* 10 - °f a natural body which has potential 
life. I beg to be excused from translating the Greek word, 
because I know not the meaning of it. 

The notions of the ancient philosophers with regard to the 
operations of the mind, particularly with regard to perception 
and ideas, seem likewise to have been formed by the same kind 
of analogy. 

[Plato, of the writers that are extant, first introduced the word 
idea into philosophy ; but his doctrine upon this subject was 
somewhat peculiar.] He agreed with the rest of the ancient 
philosophers in this, that all things consist of matter and form ; 
and that the matter of which all things were made, existed from 
eternity, without form : but he likewise believed, that there are 
eternal forms of all possible things which exist, without matter ; 
and to these eternal and immaterial forms he gave the name of 
ideas ; maintaining that they are the only object of true know- 
ledge. It is of no great moment to us whether he borrowed 
these notions from Parmenides, or whether they were the issue 
of his own creative imagination. The later Platonists seem to 
have improved upon them, in conceiving those ideas, or eternal 
forms of things, to exist, not of themselves, but in the Divine 
mind, and to be the models and patterns according to which all 
things were made : 

" Then lived th' Eternal One, then, deep retired 
In his imfathomed essence, view'd at large 
The uncreated images of things." 

To these Platonic notions that of Malebranche is very nearly 
allied. This author seems, more than any other, to have been 
aware of the difficulties attending the common hypothesis con- 
cerning ideas, to wit, that ideas of all objects of thought are in 
the human mind ; and, therefore, in order to avoid those difficul- 
ties, makes the ideas which are the immediate objects of human 
thought, to be the ideas of things in the Divine mind ; who being 
intimately present to every human mind, may discover his ideas 
to it, as far as pleaseth him. 

The Platonists and Malebranche excepted, all other philoso- 
phers, as far as I know, have conceived that there are ideas or 
images of every object of thought in the human mind, or at least 
in some part of the brain, where the mind is supposed to have 
its residence. 

Aristotle had no good affection to the word idea, and seldom 
or never uses it but in refuting Plato's notions about ideas. He 
thought that matter might exist without form, but at the same 
time he taught, that there could be no sensation, no imagination, 
nor intellection, without forms, phantasms, or species in the 
mind ; and that things sensible were perceived by sensible species, 

2p2 






580 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 

and things intelligible by intelligible species. His followers 
taught more explicitly, that these sensible and intelligible species 
are sent forth by the objects, and make their impressions upon 
the passive intellect ; and that the active intellect perceives 
them in the passive intellect. ' And this seems to have been the 
common opinion while the Peripatetic philosophy retained its 
authority. 

The Epicurean doctrine, as explained by Lucretius, though 
widely different from the Peripatetic in many things, is almost 
the same in this. He affirms, that slender films or ghosts (tenuia 
rerum simulacra) are still going off from all things, and flying 
about ; and that these being extremely subtile, easily penetrate 
our gross bodies, and sti iking upon the mind, cause thought and 
imagination. 

After the Peripatetic system had reigned above a thousand 
years in the schools of Europe, almost without a rival, it sunk 
before that of Des Cartes ; the perspicuity of whose writings and 
notions, contrasted with the obscurity of Aristotle and his com- 
mentators, created a strong prejudice in favour of this new philo- 
sophy. [The characteristic of Plato's genius was sublimity, that 
of Aristotle's, subtilty ; but Des Cartes far excelled both in per- 
spicuity, and bequeathed this spirit to his successors.] The 
system which is now generally received, with regard to the mind, 
and its operations, derives not only its spirit from Des Cartes, 
but its fundamental principles ; and after all the improvements 
made by Malebranche, Locke, Berkeley, and Hume, may still 
be called the Cartesian system : we shall therefore make some 
remarks upon its spirit and tendency in general, and upon its 
doctrine concerning ideas in particular. 

1. It may be observed, That the method which Des Cartes 
pursued, naturally led him to attend more to the operations of 
the mind by accurate reflection, and to trust less to analogical 
reasoning upon this subject, than any philosopher had done before 
him. Intending to build a system upon a new foundation, he 
began with a resolution to admit nothing but what was absolutely 
certain and evident. He supposed that his senses, his memory, 
his reason, and every other faculty to which we trust in common 
life, might be fallacious ; and resolved to disbelieve every thing, 
until he was compelled by irresistible evidence to yield assent. 

In this method of proceeding, what appeared to him, first of 
all, certain and evident, was, that he thought, that he doubted, 
that he deliberated. In a word, the operations of his own mind, 
of which he was conscious, must be real, and no delusion ; and 
though all his other faculties should deceive him, his conscious- 
ness could not. This therefore he looked upon as the first of all 
truths. This was the first firm ground upon which he set his 



CONCLUSION. 5gl 

foot, after being tossed in the ocean of scepticism ; and he resolved 
to bnild all knowledge upon it, without seeking after any more 
first principles. 

As every other truth, therefore, and particularly the existence 
of the objects of sense, was to be deduced by a train of strict 
argumentation from what he knew by consciousness, he was 
naturally led to give attention to the operations of which he was 
conscious, without borrowing his notions of them from external 
things. 

It was not in the way of analogy, but of attentive reflection, 
that he was led to observe, that thought, volition, remembrance, 
and the other attributes of the mind, are altogether unlike to 
extension, to figure, and to all the attributes of body ; that we 
have no reason, therefore, to conceive tliinking substances to 
have any resemblance to extended substances ; and that, as the 
attributes of the thinking substance are things of which we are 
conscious, we may have a more certain and immediate knowledge 
of them by reflection, than we can have of external objects by 
our senses.] 

These observations, as far as I know, were first made by Des 
Cartes ; and they are of more importance, and throw more light 
upon the subject, than all that had been said upon it before. 
They ought to make us diffident and jealous of every notion 
concerning the mind and its operations, which is drawn from sen- 
sible objects, in the way of analogy, and to make us rely only 
upon accurate reflection, as the source of all real knowledge upon 
this subject. 

2. I observe, That as the Peripatetic system has a tendency to 
materialize the mind, and its operations ; so the Cartesian has a 
tendency to spiritualize body, and its qualities. One error, com- 
mon to both systems, leads to the first of these extremes in the 
way of analogy, and to the last, in the way of reflection. The 
error I mean is, that we can know nothing about body, or its 
qualities, but as far as we have sensations which resemble those 
qualities. Both systems agreed in this : but according to their 
different methods of reasoning, they drew very different conclu- 
sions from it; the Peripatetic drawing his notions of sensation 
from the qualities of body ; the Cartesian, on the contrary, draw- 
ing his notions of the qualities of body from his sensations. 

The Peripatetic, taking it for granted that bodies and their 
qualities do really exist, and are such as we commonly take them 
to be, inferred from them the nature of his sensations, and rea- 
soned in this manner : our sensations are the impressions which 
sensible objects make upon the mind, and may be compared to 
the impression of a seal upon wax ; the impression is the image 
or form of the seal, without the matter of it : in like manner, 
every sensation is the image or form of some sansible quality of 






582 0F TH E HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 

the object. This is the reasoning of Aristotle, and it has an evi- 
dent tendency to materialize the mind, and its sensations. 

The Cartesian, on the contrary, thinks, that the existence of 
body, or of any of its qualities, is not to he taken as a first prin- 
ciple ; and that we ought to admit nothing concerning it, but 
what, by just reasoning, can be deduced from our sensations ; 
and he knows, that by reflection we can form clear and distinct 
notions of our sensations, without borrowing our notions of them 
by analogy from the objects of sense. The Cartesians, therefore, 
beginning to give attention to their sensations, first discovered 
that the sensations corresponding to secondary qualities, cannot 
resemble any quality of body. Hence Des Cartes and Locke 
inferred, that sound, taste, smell, colour, heat, and cold, which 
the vulgar took to be qualities of body, were not qualities of 
body, but mere sensations of the mind. Afterwards the inge- 
nious Berkeley, considering more attentively the nature of sensa- 
tion in general, discovered, and demonstrated, that no sensation 
whatever could possibly resemble any quality of an insentient 
being, such as body is supposed to be : and hence he inferred, 
very justly, that there is the same reason to hold extension, 
figure, and all the primary qualities, to be mere sensations, as 
there is to hold the secondary qualities to be mere sensations. 
Thus, by just reasoning upon the Cartesian principles, matter was 
stript of all its qualities ; the new system, by a kind of metaphy- 
sical sublimation, converted all the qualities of matter into sensa- 
tions, and spiritualized body, as the old had materialized spirit. 

The way to avoid both these extremes, is, to admit the exist- 
ence of what we see and feel as a first principle, as well as the 
existence of things whereof we are conscious ; and to take our 
notions of the qualities of body, from the testimony of our senses, 
with the Peripatetics ; and our notions of our sensations, from 
the testimony of consciousness, with the Cartesians. 

3. I observe, That the modern scepticism is the natural issue 
of the new system ; and that, although it did not bring forth this 
monster until the year 1739, it may be said to have carried it in 
its womb from the beginning. 

The old system admitted all the principles of common sense as 
first principles, without requiring any proof of them ; and there- 
fore, though its reasoning was commonly vague, analogical, and 
dark, yet it was built upon a broad foundation, and had no ten- 
dency to scepticism.] We do not find that any Peripatetic 
thought it incumbent upon him to prove the existence of a mate- 
rial world ; but every writer upon the Cartesian system attempted 
this, until Berkeley clearly demonstrated the futility of their 
arguments ; and thence concluded, that there was no such thing 
as a material world ; and that the belief of it ought to be rejected 
as a vulgar error. 



CONCLUSION. 



[The new system admits only one of the principles of common 
sense as a first principle ; and pretends, by strict argumentation, 
to deduce all the rest from it.] That our thoughts, our sensa- 
tions, and every thing of which we are conscious, hath a real 
existence, is admitted in this system as a first principle ; but 
every thing else must be made evident by the light of reason. 
Reason must rear the whole fabric of knowledge upon this single 
principle of consciousness. 

There is a disposition in human nature to reduce things to as 
few principles as possible ; and this, without doubt, adds to the^ 
beauty of a system, if the principles are able to support what 
rests upon them. The mathematicians glory very justly, in 
having raised so noble and magnificent a system of science, upon 
the foundation of a few axioms and definitions. This love of 
simplicity, and of reducing things to few principles, hath pro- 
duced many a false system ; but there never was any system in 
which it appears so remarkably as that of Des Cartes. His whole 
system concerning matter and spirit is built upon one axiom, 
expressed in one word, cogito. Upon the foundation of conscious 
thought, with ideas for his materials, he builds his system of the 
human understanding, and attempts to account for all its pheno- 
mena : and having, as he imagined, from his consciousness, proved 
the existence of matter ; upon the existence of matter, and of a 
certain quantity of motion originally impressed upon it, he builds 
his system of the material world, and attempts to account for all 
its phenomena. 

These principles with regard to the material system have been 
found insufficient ; and it has been made evident, that besides 
matter and motion, we must admit gravitation, cohesion, corpus- 
cular attraction, magnetism, and other centripetal and centrifugal 
forces, by which the particles of matter attract and repel each 
other. Newton, having discovered this, and demonstrated, that 
these principles cannot be resolved into matter and motion, was 
led by analogy, and the love of simplicity, to conjecture, but with 
a modesty and caution peculiar to him, that all the phenomena 
of the material world depended upon attracting and repelling 
forces in the particles of matter. But we may now venture to 
say, that this conjecture fell short of the mark. For, even in the 
unorganized kingdom, the powers by which salts, crystals, spars, 
and many other bodies, concrete into regular forms, can never be 
accounted for by attracting and repelling forces in the particles 
of matter. And in the vegetable and animal kingdoms, there are 
strong indications of powers of a different nature from all the 
powers of unorganized bodies. We see then, that although in 
the structure of the material world there is, without doubt, all 
the beautiful simplicity consistent with the purposes for which it 
was made, it is not so simple as* the great Des Cartes determined 



584 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 

H to be : nay, it is not so simple as the greater Newton modestly 
conjectured it to be. Both were misled by analogy, and the love 
of simplicity. One had been much conversant about extension, 
figure, and motion ; the other had enlarged his views to attract- 
ing and repelling forces ; and both formed their notions of the 
unknown parts of nature, from those with which they were 
acquainted, as the shepherd Tityrus formed his notion of the 
city Rome from his country -village : 

" Urbem quam dicunt Romam, Meliboee, putavi 

Stultus ego, huic nostras similem, quo ssepe solemus 

Pastores ovium teneros depellere foetus. 

Sic canibus catulos similes, sic matribus haedos 

Noram : sic parvis componere magna solebam." 

Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome 
Like Mantua, where on market days we come, 
And thither drive our tender lambs from home ; 
So kids and whelps their sires and dams express : 
And so the great I measured by the less. 

This is a just picture of the analogical way of thinking. 

But to come to the system of Des Cartes concerning the human 
understanding ; it was built, as we have observed, upon conscious- 
ness as its sole foundation, and with ideas as its materials ; and 
all his followers have built upon the same foundation and with 
the same materials. They acknowledge that nature hath given 
us various simple ideas : these are analogous to the matter of 
Des Cartes' physical system. They acknowledge likewise a 
natural power by which ideas are compounded, disjoined, asso- 
ciated, compared: this is analogous to the original quantity of 
motion in Des Cartes' physical system. From these principles 
they attempt to explain the phenomena of the human understand- 
ing, just as in the physical system the phenomena of nature were 
to be explained by matter and motion. It must indeed be 
acknowledged, that there is great simplicity in this system as well 
as in the other. There is such a similitude between the two, as 
may be expected between children of the same father : but as 
the one has been found to be the child of Des Cartes, and not of 
nature, there is ground to think that the other is so likewise. 

[That the natural issue of this system is scepticism with regard 
to every thing except the existence of our ideas, and of their 
necessary relations which appear upon comparing them, is evi- 
dent : for ideas being the only objects of thought, and having no 
existence but when we are conscious of them, it necessarily follows, 
that there is no object of our thought which can have a continued 
and permanent existence.] Body and spirit, cause and effect, 
time and space, to which we were wont to ascribe an existence 
independent of our thought, are all turned out of existence by 
this short dilemma : either these things are ideas of sensation or 
reflection, or they arc not : if they are ideas of sensation or 



conclusion. 5g5 

reflection, they can have no existence but when we are conscious 
of them : if they are not ideas of sensation or reflection, they are 
words without any meaning. 

Neither Des Cartes nor Mr. Locke perceived this consequence 
of their system concerning ideas. Bishop Berkeley was the first 
who discovered it. And what followed upon this discovery ? 
Why, with regard to the material world, and with regard to space 
and time, he admits the consequence, that these things are mere 
ideas, and have no existence but in our minds : but with regard 
to the existence of spirits or minds, he does not admit the conse- 
quence ; and if he had admitted it, he must have been an abso- 
lute sceptic. But how does he evade this consequence with 
regard to the existence of spirits ? The expedient which the 
good Bishop uses on this occasion is very remarkable, and shows 
his great aversion to scepticism. He maintains, that we have no 
ideas of spirits ; and that we can think, and speak, and reason 
about them, and about their attributes, without having any ideas 
of them. If this is so, my lord, what should hinder us from 
thinking and reasoning about bodies, and their qualities, without 
having ideas of them ? The Bishop either did not think of this 
question, or did not think fit to give any answer to it. However, 
we may observe, that in order to avoid scepticism, he fairly starts 
out of the Cartesian system, without giving any reason why he 
did so in this instance, and in no other. This indeed is the only 
instance of a deviation from Cartesian principles which I have 
met with in the successors of Des Cartes ; and it seems to have 
been only a sudden start, occasioned by the terror of scepticism ; 
for in all other things Berkeley's system is founded upon Carte- 
sian principles. 

Thus we see, that Des Cartes and Locke take the road that 
leads to scepticism, without knowing the end of it ; but they stop 
short for want of light to carry them farther. Berkeley, frighted 
at the appearance of the dreadful abyss, starts aside, and avoids 
it. But the author of the " Treatise of Human Nature," more 
daring and intrepid, without turning aside to the right hand or 
to the left, like Virgil's Alecto, shoots directly into the gulf : 
" Hie specus horrendum, et ssevi spiracula Ditis 
Monstrantur : ruptoque ingens Acheron te vorago 
Pestiferas aperit fauces." 

There Pluto pants for breath from out his cell, 
And opens wide the grinning jaws of hell. 

4. We may observe, that the account given by the new system, 
of that furniture of the human understanding which is the gift of 
nature, and not the acquisition of our own reasoning faculty, is 
extremely lame and imperfect. 

The natural furniture of the human understanding is of two 
kinds ; first, The notions or simple apprehensions which we have 






586 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 

of things ; and secondly, The judgments or the belief which we 
have concerning them. As to our notions, the new system re- 
duces them to two classes ; ideas of sensation, and ideas of 
reflection ; the first are conceived to be copies of our sensations, 
retained in the memory or imagination ; the second, to be copies 
of the operations of our minds whereof we. are conscious, in like 
manner retained in the memory or imagination: and we are 
taught, that these two comprehend all the materials about which 
the human understanding is, or can be employed. As to our 
judgment of things, or the belief which we have concerning 
them, the new system allows no part of it to be the gift of 
nature, but holds it to be the acquisition of reason, and to be 
got by comparing our ideas, and perceiving their agreements or 
disagreements. Now I take this account, both of our notions, 
and of our judgments or belief, to be extremely imperfect ; and 
I shall briefly point out some of its capital defects. 

[The division of our notions into ideas of sensation, and ideas 
of reflection, is contrary to all rules of logic ; because the second 
member of the division includes the first. .] For, can we form clear 
and just notions of our sensations any other way than by reflec- 
tion ? Surely we cannot. Sensation is an operation of the 
mind of which we are conscious ; and we get the notion of sen- 
sation, by reflecting upon that which we are conscious of. In 
like manner, doubting and believing are operations of the mind 
whereof we are conscious ; and we get the notion of them by 
reflecting upon what we are conscious of. The ideas of sensa- 
tion, therefore, are ideas of reflection, as much as the ideas of 
doubting, or believing, or any other ideas whatsoever. 

But to pass over the inaccuracy of this division, it is extremely 
incomplete. For, since sensation is an operation of the mind, as 
well as all the other things of which we form our notions by 
reflection ; when it is asserted, that all our notions are either 
ideas of sensation or ideas of reflection, the plain English of 
this is, that mankind neither do, nor can think of any thing but 
of the operations of their own minds. Nothing can be more con- 
trary to truth, or more contrary to the experience of mankind. 
I know that Locke, while he maintained this doctrine, believed 
the notions which we have of body and of its qualities, and the 
notions which we have of motion and of space, to be ideas of 
sensation. But why did he believe this ? Because he believed 
those notions to be nothing else but images of our sensations. 
If, therefore, the notions of body and its qualities, of motion 
and space, be not images of our sensations, will it not follow, 
that those notions are not ideas of sensation ? Most certainly. 

There is no doctrine of the new system which more directly 
leads to scepticism than this. And the author of the " Treatise 
of Human Nature," knew very well how to use it for that pur- 



CONCLUSION. 5§7 

pose : for, if you maintain that there is any such existence as 
body or spirit, time or place, cause or effect, he immediately 
catches you between the horns of this dilemma ; your notions of 
these existences are either ideas of sensation, or ideas of reflec- 
tion ; if of sensation, from what sensation are they copied ? if 
of reflection, from what operation of the mind are they copied ? 

It is indeed to be wished, that those who have written much 
about sensation, and about the other operations of the mind, had 
likewise thought and reflected much, and with great care, upon 
those operations : but is it not very strange, that they will not 
allow it to be possible for mankind to think of any thing else ? 

The account which this system gives of our judgment and 
belief concerning things, is as far from the truth as the account 
it gives of our notions or simple apprehensions. It represents 
our senses as having no other office, but that of furnishing the 
mind with notions or simple apprehensions of things ; and makes 
[our judgment and belief concerning those things to be acquired 
by comparing our notions together, and perceiving their agree- 
ments or disagreements. ,] 

We have shown, on the contrary, that every operation of the 
senses, in its very nature, implies judgment or belief, as well as 
simple apprehension. Thus, when I feel the pain of the gout 
in my toe, I have not only a notion of pain, but a belief of its 
existence, and a belief of some disorder in my toe which occa- 
sions it ; and this belief is not produced by comparing ideas, 
and perceiving their agreements and disagreements ; it is in- 
cluded in the very nature of the sensation. When I perceive a 
tree before me, my faculty of seeing gives me not only a notion 
or simple apprehension of the tree, but a belief of its existence, 
and of its figure, distance, and magnitude ; and this judgment 
or belief is not got by comparing ideas, it is included in the 
very nature of the perception. We have taken notice of several 
original principles of belief in the course of this inquiry ; and 
when other faculties of the mind are examined, we shall find 
more, which have not occurred in the examination of the five 
senses. 

Such original and natural judgments are therefore a part of 
that furniture which nature hath given to the human understand- 
ing. They are the inspiration of the Almighty, no less than our 
notions or simple apprehensions. They serve to direct us in the 
common affairs of life, where our reasoning faculty would leave 
us in the dark. They are a part of our constitution, and all the 
discoveries of our reason are grounded upon them. They make 
up what is called the common sense of mankind; and what is 
manifestly contrary to any of those first principles, is what we 
call absurd. The strength of them is good sense, which is often 
found in those who are not acute in reasoning. A remarkable 



588 0F THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 

deviation from them, arising from a disorder in the constitution, 
is what we call lunacy ; as when a man believes that he is made 
of glass. When a man suffers himself to be reasoned out of the 
principles of common sense by metaphysical arguments, we may 
call this metaphysical lunacy ; which differs from the other spe- 
cies of the distemper in this, that it is not continued, but inter- 
mittent : it is apt to seize the patient in solitary and speculative 
moments ; but when he enters into society, common sense reco- 
vers her authority. A clear explication and enumeration of the 
principles of common sense, is one of the chief desiderata in 
logic. We have only considered such of them as occurred in 
the examination of the five senses. 

[5. The last observation that I shall make upon the new sys- 
tem is, That, although it professes to set out in the way of reflec- 
tion, and not of analogy, it hath retained some of the old analo- 
gical notions concerning the operations of the mind ; particularly, 
That things which do not presently exist in the mind itself, can 
only be perceived, remembered, or imagined, by means of ideas 
or images of them in the mind, which are the immediate objects 
of perception, remembrance, and imagination.] This doctrine 
appears evidently to be borrowed from the old system ; which 
taught, that external things make impressions upon the mind, 
like the impressions of a seal upon wax ; that it is by means of 
those impressions that we perceive, remember, or imagine them ; 
and that those impressions must resemble the things from which 
they are taken. When we form our notions of the operations 
of the mind by analogy, this way of conceiving them seems to 
be very natural, and offers itself to our thoughts : for as every 
thing which is felt must make some impression upon the body, 
we are apt to think, that every thing which is understood must 
make some impression upon the mind. 

[From such analogical reasoning, this opinion of the existence 
of ideas or images of things in the mind, seems to have taken 
its rise, and to have been so universally received among philo- 
sophers.] It was observed already, that Berkeley, in one in- 
stance, apostatizes from this principle of the new system, by 
affirming, that we have no ideas of spirits, and that we can think 
of them immediately, without ideas. But I know not whether 
in this he has had any followers. There is some difference, 
likewise, among modern philosophers, with regard to the ideas 
or images by which we perceive, remember, or imagine sensible 
things. For, though all agree in the existence of such images, 
they differ about their place ; some placing them in a particular 
part of the brain, where the soul is thought to have her resi- 
dence, and others placing them in the mind itself. Des Cartes 
held the first of these opinions ; to which Newton seems like- 
wise to have inclined ; for he proposes this query in his " Optics : " 



conclusion. 5§9 

" Annon sensorium animalium est locus cui substantia sentiens 
adest, et in quern sensibiles rerum species per nervos et cerebrum 
deferuntur, ut ibi prassentes a pragsente sentiri possint?" But 
Locke seems to place the ideas of sensible things in the mind : 
and that Berkeley, and the author of the " Treatise of Human 
Nature," were of the same opinion, is evident. The last makes 
a very curious application of this doctrine, by endeavouring to 
prove from it, that the mind either is no substance, or that it is 
an extended and divisible substance ; because the ideas of exten- 
sion cannot be in a subject which is indivisible and unextended. 

[I confess I think his reasoning in this, as in most cases, is 
clear and strong. For whether the idea of extension be only 
another name for extension itself, as Berkeley and this author 
assert ; or whether the idea of extension be an image and resem- 
blance of extension, as Locke conceived ; I appeal to any man 
of common sense, whether extension, or any image of extension, 
can be in an unextended and indivisible subject.] But while I 
agree with him in his reasoning, I would make a different appli- 
cation of it. He takes it for granted, that there are ideas of 
extension in the mind ; and thence infers, that if it is at all a 
substance, it must be an extended and divisible substance. On 
the contrary, I take it for granted, upon the testimony of com- 
mon sense, that my mind is a substance, that is, a permanent 
subject of thought ; and my reason convinces me, that it is an 
unextended and indivisible substance ; and hence I infer, that 
there cannot be in it any thing that resembles extension. If 
this reasoning had occurred to Berkeley, it would probably have 
led him to acknowledge, that we may think and reason concerning 
bodies, without having ideas of them in the mind, as well as con- 
cerning spirits. 

I intended to have examined more particularly and fully this 
doctrine of the existence of ideas or images of things in the 
mind ; and likewise another doctrine, which is founded upon it, 
to wit, — that judgment or belief is nothing but a perception of 
the agreement or disagreement of our ideas : but having already 
shown, through the course of this inquiry, that the operations 
of the mind which we have examined, give no countenance to 
either of these doctrines, and in many things contradict them, I 
have thought it proper to drop this part of my design. It may 
be executed with more advantage, if it is at all necessary, after 
inquiring into some other powers of the human understanding. 

Although we have examined only the five senses, and the 
principles of the human mind which are employed about them, 
or such as have fallen in our way in the course of this examina- 
tion ; we shall leave the further prosecution of this inquiry to 
future deliberation. The powers of memory, of imagination, of 
taste, of reasoning, of moral perception, the will, the passions, 



590 OF THE HUMAN MIND. CHAP. VII. 

the affections, and all the active powers of the soul, present a 
vast and boundless field of philosophical disquisition, which the 
author of this inquiry is far from thinking himself able to sur- 
vey with accuracy. Many authors of ingenuity, ancient and 
modern, have made excursions into this vast territory, and have 
communicated useful observations : but there is reason to be- 
lieve, that those who have pretended to give us a map of the 
whole, have satisfied themselves with a very inaccurate and in- 
complete survey. If Galileo had attempted a complete system 
of natural philosophy, he had, probably, done little sendee to 
mankind : but by confining himself to what was within his com- 
prehension, he laid the foundation of a system of knowledge, 
which rises by degrees, and does honour to the human under- 
standing. Newton, building upon this foundation, and in like 
manner confining his inquiries to the law of gravitation and the 
properties of light, performed wonders. If he had attempted a 
great deal more, he had done a great deal less, and perhaps 
nothing at all. Ambitious of following such great examples, 
with unequal steps, alas ! and unequal force, we have attempted 
an inquiry only into one little corner of the human mind ; that 
corner which seems to be most exposed to vulgar observation, 
and to be most easily comprehended ; and yet, if we have deli- 
neated it justly, it must be acknowledged, that the accounts 
heretofore given of it, were very lame, and wide of the truth. 






AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY :* 

OCCASIONED BY READING A TREATISE IN WHICH SIMPLE AND 
COMPOUND RATIOS ARE APPLIED TO VIRTUE AND MERIT. 



I. What quantity is. — Since mathematical demonstration is 
thought to carry a peculiar evidence along with it, which leaves 
no room for further dispute, it may be of some use, or entertain- 
ment at least, to inquire to what subjects this kind of proof 
may be applied. 

Mathematics contain properly the doctrine of measure ; and 
the object of this science is commonly said to be quantity ; there- 
fore quantity ought to be denned, what may be measured. 
Those who have defined quantity to be whatever is capable of 
more or less, have given too wide a notion of it, which, 1 appre- 
hend, has led some persons to apply mathematical reasoning to 
subjects that do not admit of it. 

Pain and pleasure admit of various degrees, but who can pre- 
tend to measure them ? Had this been possible, it is not to be 
doubted but we should have had as distinct names for their 
various degrees as we have for measures of length or capacity ; 
and a patient should have been able to describe the quantity of 
his pain, as well as the time it began, or the part it affected. 
To talk intelligibly of the quantity of pain, we should have some 
standard to measure it by; some known degree of it, so well 
ascertained, that all men, when they talked of it, should mean 
the same thing ; we should also be able to compare other degrees 
of pain with this, so as to perceive distinctly, not only whether 
they exceed or fall short of it, but how far, or in what propor- 
tion, — whether by a half, a fifth, or a tenth. 

Whatever has quantity, or is measurable, must be made up 
of parts, which bear proportion to one another and to the whole ; 
so that it may be increased by addition of like parts, and dimin- 

* This splendid specimen of metaphysical mathematics originally appeared 
in the xlvth vol. of the " Philosophical Transactions," and has never before 
been published in conjunction with the author's other Essays. 



592 AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 

ished by subtraction, may be multiplied and divided, and, in a 
word, may bear any proportion to another quantity of the same 
kind, that one line or number can bear to another. That this 
is essential to all mathematical quantity, is evident from the 
first elements of algebra, which treats of quantity in general, or 
of those relations and properties which are common to all kinds 
of quantity. Every algebraical quantity is supposed capable not 
only of being increased and diminished, but of being exactly 
doubled, tripled, halved, or of bearing any assignable proportion 
to another quantity of the same kind. This then is the charac- 
teristic of quantity ; whatever has this property may be adopted 
into mathematics, and its quantity and relations may be measured 
with mathematical accuracy and certainty. 

II. Of proper and improper quantity. — There are some quan- 
tities which may be called proper and others improper. This 
distinction is taken notice of by Aristotle, but it deserves some 
explanation. 

I call that proper quantity which is measured by its own kind, 
or which of its own nature is capable of being doubled or tripled, 
without taking in any quantity of a different kind as a measure 
of it. Thus a line is measured by known lines, as inches, feet, 
or miles ; and the length of a foot being known, there can be no 
question about the length of two feet, or of any part or multiple 
of a foot. And this known length, by being multiplied or 
divided, is sufficient to give us a distinct idea of any length 
whatsoever. 

Improper quantity is that which cannot be measured by its 
own kind ; but to which we assign a measure by the means 
of some proper quantity that is related to it. Thus velocity of 
motion, when we consider it by itself, cannot be measured. We 
may perceive one body to move faster, another slower ; but we 
can have no distinct idea of a proportion or ratio between their 
velocities, without taking in some quantity of another kind to 
measure them by. Having, therefore, observed that by a greater 
velocity a greater space is passed over in the same time, by a less 
velocity in a less space, and by an equal velocity in an equal 
space ; we hence learn to measure velocity by the space passed 
over in a given time, and to reckon it to be in exact proportion 
to that space. And having once assigned this measure to it, we 
can then, and not till then, conceive one velocity to be exactly 
double, or half, or in any other proportion to another ; we may 
then introduce it into mathematical reasoning without danger of 
confusion or error, and may also use it as a measure of other 
improper quantities. 

All the kinds of proper quantity we know, may, I think, be 
reduced to these four : extension, duration, number, and propor- 
tion. Though proportion be measurable in its own nature, and 



AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 593 

therefore hath proper quantity, yet as things cannot have propor- 
tion which have not quantity of some other kind, it follows that 
whatever has quantity must have it in one or other of these three 
kinds, extension, duration, or number. These are the measure 
of themselves, and of all things else that are measurable. 

Number is applicable to some things to which it is not com- 
monly applied by the vulgar. Thus, by attentive consideration, 
lots and chances of various kinds appear to be made up of a 
determinate number of chances that are allowed to be equal ; 
and by numbering these the values and proportions of those 
which are compounded of them may be demonstrated. 

Velocity, the quantity of motion, density, elasticity, the vis 
insita, and impressa, the various kinds of centripetal forces, and 
different orders of fluxions, are all improper quantities, which, 
therefore, ought not to be admitted into mathematics without 
having a measure of them assigned. The measure of an impro- 
per quantity ought always to be included in the definition of it ; 
for it is the giving it a measure that makes it a proper subject 
of mathematical reasoning. If all mathematicians had considered 
this as carefully as Sir Isaac Newton appears to have done, some 
labour had been saved both to themselves and to their readers. 
That great man, whose clear and comprehensive understanding 
appears even in his definitions, having frequent occasion to treat of 
such improper quantities, never fails to define them, so as to give 
a measure of them, either in proper quantities, or in such as had 
a known measure. This may be seen in the definitions prefixed 
to his " Princip. Phil. Nat. Math." 

It is not easy to say how many kinds of improper quantity 
may in time be introduced into mathematics, or to what new 
subjects measures may be applied ; but this, I think, we may 
conclude, that there is no foundation in nature for, nor can any 
valuable end be served by, applying measure to anything but 
what has these two properties. First, it must admit of degrees 
of greater and less. Secondly, it must be associated with, or 
related to something that has proper quantity, so as that when 
one is increased the other is increased, when one is diminished 
the other is diminished also ; and every degree of the one must 
have a determinate magnitude or quantity of the other corres- 
ponding to it. 

It sometimes happens that w T e have occasion to apply different 
measures to the same thing. Centripetal force, as defined by 
Newton, may be measured various ways ; he himself gives differ- 
ent measures of it, and distinguishes them by different names, as 
may be seen in the above-mentioned definitions. 

In reality, I conceive that the applying of measures to things 
that properly have not quantity, is only a fiction or artifice of 

2 Q 



594 AN ESSAY 0N QUANTITY. 

the mind, for enabling us to conceive more easily and more dis- 
tinctly to express and demonstrate the properties and relations 
of those things that have real quantity. The propositions con- 
tained in the two first books of Newton's " Principia," might, 
perhaps, be expressed and demonstrated without those various 
measures of motion, and of centripetal and impressed forces, 
which he uses. But this would occasion such intricate and per- 
plexed circumlocutions, and such a tedious length of demonstra- 
tions, as would fright any sober person from attempting to read 
them. 

III. Corollary First. — From the nature of quantity we may 
see what it is that gives mathematics such advantage over other 
sciences in clearness and certainty ; namely, that quantity admits 
of a much greater variety of relations than any other subject of 
human reasoning ; and, at the same time, every relation or pro- 
portion of quantities may, by the help of lines and numbers, be 
so distinctly defined as to be easily distinguished from all others, 
without any danger of mistake. Hence it is that we are able to 
trace its relations through a long process of reasoning, and with 
a perspicuity and accuracy which we in vain expect in subjects 
not capable of mensuration. 

Extended quantities, such as lines, surfaces and solids, besides 
what they have in common with all other quantities, have this 
peculiar, that their parts have a particular place and disposition 
among themselves : a line may not only bear any assignable pro- 
portion to another, in length or magnitude, but lines of the same 
length may vary in the disposition of their parts ; one may be 
straight, another may be part of a curve of any kind or dimen- 
sion, of which there is an endless variety. The like may be said 
of surfaces and solids. So that extended quantities admit of no 
less variety with regard to their form than with regard to their 
magnitude ; and as their various forms may be exactly defined 
and measured, no less than their magnitudes, hence it is that 
geometry, which treats of extended quantity, leads us into a 
much greater compass and variety of reasoning than any other 
branch of mathematics. Long deductions in algebra for the most 
part are made, not so much by a train of reasoning in the mind, 
as by an artificial kind of operation, which is built on a few very 
simple principles : but in geometry, we may build one proposi- 
tion upon another, a third upon that, and so on, without ever 
coming to a limit which we cannot exceed. The properties of 
the more simple figures can hardly be exhausted, much less those 
of the more complex ones. 

IV. Cor oil. 2. — It may I think be deduced from what hath 
been above said, that mathematical evidence is an evidence sui 
generis, not competent to any proposition which does not express 



AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 595 

a relation of things measurable by lines or numbers. All proper 
quantity may be measured by these, and improper quantities 
must be measured by those that are proper. 

There are many things capable of more and less, which perhaps 
are not capable of mensuration. Tastes, smells, the sensation of 
heat and cold, beauty, pleasure, all the affections and appetites 
of the mind, wisdom, folly, and most kinds of probability, with 
many other things too tedious to enumerate, admit of degrees, 
but have not yet been reduced to measure, nor, as I apprehend, 
ever can be. I say, most kinds of probability, because one kind 
of it, viz., the probability of chances, is properly measurable by 
number, as is above observed. 

Although attempts have been made to apply mathematical 
reasoning to some of these things, and the quantity of virtue and 
merit in actions has been measured by simple and compound 
ratios : yet I do not think that any real knowledge has been 
struck out this way : it may perhaps, if discreetly used, be a help 
to discourse on these subjects, by pleasing the imagination, and 
illustrating what is already known ; but until our affections and 
appetites shall themselves be reduced to quantity, and exact 
measures of their various degrees be assigned, in vain shall we 
essay to measure virtue and merit by them. This is only to ring- 
changes upon words, and to make a show of mathematical reason- 
ing, without advancing one step in real knowledge. 

V. Coroll. 3. — I apprehend the account that hath been given 
of the nature of proper and improper quantity, may also throw 
some light upon the controversy about the force of moving bodies, 
which long exercised the pens of many mathematicians, and, for 
what I know, is rather dropped than ended ; to the no small 
scandal of mathematics, which hath always boasted of a degree 
of evidence, inconsistent with debates that can be brought to 
no issue. 

Though philosophers on both sides agree with one another, 
and with the vulgar in this, That the force of a moving body is 
the same while its velocity is the same, is increased when its 
velocity is increased, and diminished when that is diminished. 
But this vague notion of force, in which both sides agree, though 
perhaps sufficient for common discourse, yet is not sufficient to 
make it a subject of mathematical reasoning. In order to that, 
it must be more accurately defined, and so defined as to give us 
a measure of it, that we may understand what is meant by a 
double or a triple force. The ratio of one force to another can- 
not be perceived but by a measure ; and that measure must be 
settled not by mathematical reasoning, but by a definition. Let 
any one consider force without relation to any other quantity, 
and see whether he can conceive one force exactly double to 
another ; I am sure I cannot, nor shall, till I shall be endowed 



J! 



59g AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 

with some new faculty ; for I know nothing of force but by its 
effects, and therefore can measure it only by its effects. Till 
force then is defined, and by that definition a measure of it 
assigned, we fight in the dark about a vague idea, which is not 
sufficiently determined to be admitted into any mathematical 
proposition. And when such a definition is given, the contro- 
versy will presently be ended. 

VI. Of the Newtonian measure of force. — You say, the force 
of a body in motion is as its velocity ; either you mean to lay 
this down as a definition as Newton himself has done ; or you 
mean to affirm it as a proposition capable of proof. If you mean 
to lay it down as a definition, it is no more than if you should 
say, I call that a double force which gives a double velocity to 
the same body, a triple force which gives, a triple velocity, and so 
on in proportion. This I entirely agree to ; no mathematical 
definition of force can be given that is more clear and simple, 
none that is more agreeable to the common use of the word in 
language. For since all men agree, that the force of the body 
being the same, the velocity must also be the same ; the force 
being increased or diminished, the velocity must be so also; what 
can be more natural or proper than to take the velocity for the 
measure of the force ? 

Several other things might be advanced to show, that this defi- 
nition agrees best with the common popular notion of the word 
force. If two bodies meet directly with a shock, which mutually 
destroys their motion without producing any other sensible effect, 
the vulgar would pronounce, without hesitation, that they met 
with equal force ; and so they do, according to the measure of 
force above laid down : for we find by experience, that in this 
case their velocities are reciprocally as their quantities of matter. 
In mechanics, where by a machine two powers or weights are 
kept in equilibrio, the vulgar would reckon, that these powers 
act with equal force ; and so by this definition they do. The 
power of gravity being constant and uniform, any one would 
expect that it should give equal degrees of force to a body in equal 
times ; and so by this definition it does. So that this definition 
is not only clear and simple, but it agrees best with the use 
of the word force in common language, and this, I think, is all 
that can be desired in a definition. 

But if you are not satisfied with laying it down as a definition, 
that the force of a body is as its velocity, but will needs prove 
it by demonstration or experiment, I must beg of you, before 
you take one step in the proof, to let me know what you mean 
by force, and what by a double or a triple force. This you must 
do by a definition which contains a measure of force. Some pri- 
mary measure of force must be taken for granted, or laid down 
by way of definition ; otherwise we can never reason about its 



AN ESSAY OX QUANTITY. 59- 

quantity. And why, then, may you not take the velocity for 
the primary measure, as well as any other ? You will find none 
that is more simple, more distinct, or more agreeable to the 
common use of the word force : and he that rejects one definition 
that has these properties, has equal right to reject any other. I 
say, then, that it is impossible, by mathematical reasoning or 
experiment, to prove that the force of a body is as its velocity, 
without taking for granted the thing you would prove, or some- 
thing else that is no more evident than the thing to be proved. 

VII. Of the Leibnitzian measure of force. — Let us next hear 
the Leibnitzian, who says, that the force of a body is as the 
square of its velocity. If he lays this down as a definition, I 
shall rather agree to it, than quarrel about words, and for the 
future shall understand him, by a quadruple force, to mean that 
which gives a double velocity, by nine times the force that which 
gives three times the velocity, and -so on in duplicate proportion. 
While he keeps by his definition, it will not necessarily lead him 
into any error in mathematics or mechanics. For, however 
paradoxical his conclusions may appear, however different in 
words from theirs who measure force by the simple ratio of the 
velocity, they will, in their meaning, be the same : just as he 
who would call a foot twenty-four inches, without changing other 
measures of length, when he says a yard contains a foot and 
a-half, means the very same as you do, when you say a yard con- 
tains three feet. 

But though I allow this measure of force to be distinct, and 
cannot charge it with falsehood, for no definition can be false, 
yet I say, in the first place, it is less simple than the other ; for 
why should a duplicate ratio be used, where the simple ratio 
will do as well ? In the next place, this measure of force is less 
agreeable to the common use of the word force, as hath been 
shown above : and this, indeed, is all that the many laboured 
arguments and experiments, brought to overturn it, do prove. 
This also is evident, from the paradoxes into which it has led its 
defenders. 

We are next to consider the pretences of the Leibnitzian, 
who will undertake to prove, by demonstration or experiment, 
that force is as the square of the velocity. I ask him first, what 
he lays down for the first measure of force ? The only measure 
I remember to have been given by the philosophers of that side, 
and which seems first of all to have led Leibnitz into his notion 
of force, is this : the height to which a body is impelled by any 
impressed force, is, says he, the whole effect of that force, and 
therefore must be proportional to- the cause ; but this height is 
found to be as the square of the velocity, which the body had 
at the beginning of its motion. 

In this argument, I apprehend that great man has been ex- 



598 



AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 



tremely unfortunate. For, first, Whereas all proof should be 
taken from principles that are common to both sides, in order to 
prove a thing we deny, he assumes a principle which we think 
further from the truth ; namely, that the height to which the 
body rises is the whole effect of the impulse, and ought to be 
the whole measure of it. Secondly, His reasoning serves as well 
against him as for him. For may I not plead with as good rea- 
son, at least, thus ? The velocity given by an impressed force, 
is the whole effect of that impressed force ; and therefore the 
force must be as the velocity. Thirdly, Supposing the height to 
which the body is raised to be the measure of the force, this 
principle overturns the conclusion he would establish by it, as 
well as that which he opposes. For, supposing the first velocity 
of the body to be still the same, the height to which it rises will 
be increased, if the power of gravity is diminished ; and dimi- 
nished, if the power of gravity is increased. Bodies descend 
slower at the equator, and faster towards the poles, as is found 
by experiments made on pendulums. If, then, a body is driven 
upwards at the equator with a given velocity, and the same body 
is afterwards driven upwards at Leipsic with the same velocity, 
the height to which it rises in the former case will be greater 
than in the latter ; and therefore, according to his reasoning, 
its force was greater in the former case ; but the velocity in 
both was the same ; consequently, the force is not as the square 
of the velocity, any more than as the velocity. 

VIII. Reflections on this controversy . — Upon the whole, I 
cannot but think the controvertists on both sides have had a 
very hard task ; the one to prove, by mathematical reasoning 
and experiment, what ought to be taken for granted ; the other, 
by the same means, to prove what might be granted, making 
some allowance for impropriety of expression, but can never be 
proved. 

If some mathematician should take it in his head to affirm, 
that the velocity of a body is not as the space it passes over in 
a given time, but as the square of that space, you might bring 
mathematical arguments and experiments to confute him ; but 
you would never by these force him to yield, if he was inge- 
nuous in his way ; because you have no common principles left 
you to argue from, and you differ from one another, not in a 
mathematical proposition, but in a mathematical definition. 

Suppose a philosopher has considered only that measure of 
centripetal force which is proportional to the velocity generated 
by it in a given time, and from this measure deduces several 
propositions: another philosopher, in a distant country, who 
has the same general notion of centripetal force, takes the velo- 
city generated by it, and the quantity of matter together, as 
the measure of it. From this he deduces several conclusions, 



X 



AN ESSAY ON QUANTITY. 599 

that seem directly contrary to those of the other. Thereupon, 
a serious controversy is begun, whether centripetal force be as 
the velocity, or as the velocity and quantity of matter taken 
together. Much mathematical and experimental dust is raised ; 
and yet neither party can ever be brought to yield ; for they are 
both in the right, only they have been unlucky in giving the 
same name to different mathematical conceptions. Had they 
distinguished these measures of centripetal force as Newton has 
done, calling the one "vis centripetse quantitatis acceleratrix," 
the other, " quantitas motrix," all appearance of contradiction 
had ceased, and their propositions, which seem so contrary, had 
exactly tallied. 



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